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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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THE   BISHOP'S  SECRET. 


THE  BISHOP'S  SECRET 


BY 

FERGUS   HUME, 

author  of 

'•The  Mystery  of  a  Hansom  Cab,"    "  For  the  Defense,' 

"The  Harlequin  Opal,"  "The  Girl  from 

Malta,"  etc. 


Chicago  and  New  York: 
RAND,  McNALLY  &  COMPANY, 

publishers. 


CopjTlght,  1900,  by  Rand.  McNaUy  &  Co. 
Copyright,   190G,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co 


PR 

PREFACE. 

In  his  earlier  works,  notably  in  "  The  Mystery  of  a  Hansom 
Cab"  and  "The  Silent  House  in  Pimlico,"  Mr.  Hume  won  a 
reputation  second  to  none  for  plot  of  the  stirring,  ingenious, 
misleading,  and  finally  surprising  kind,  and  for  working  out 
his  plot  in  vigorous  and  picturesque  English. 

In  "The  Bishop's  Secret,"  while  there  is  no  falling  oif  in  plot 
and  style,  there  is  a  welcome  and  marvelous  broadening  out  as 
to  the  cast  of  characters,  representing  an  unusually  wide  range 
of  typical  men  and  women.  These  are  not  laboriously 
described  by  the  author,  but  are  made  to  reveal  themselves  in 
action  and  speech  in  a  way  that  has,  for  the  reader,  all  the 
charm  of  personal  intercourse  with  living  people. 

Mr.  Hume's  treatment  of  the  peculiar  and  exclusive  ecclesi- 
astical society  of  a  small  English  cathedral  city  is  quite 
worthy  of  Anthonj'  TroUope,  and  his  leading  character,  Bishop 
Pendle,  is  equal  to  Trollope's  best  bishop.  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Cargrim,  the  Bishop's  poor  and  most  unworthy  protege,  is  a 
meaner  Uriah  Heep.  Mrs.  Pansey  is  the  embodiment  of  all 
shrewishness,  and  yields  unlimited  amusement.  The  Gypsies 
are  genuine  —  such  as  George  Borrow,  himself,  would  have 
pictured  them  —  not  the  ignorant  caricatures  so  frequently 
drawn  by  writers  too  lazy  to  study  their  subject. 

Besides  these  types,  there  are  several  which  seem  to  have 
had  no  exact  prototypes  in  preceding  fiction.  Such  are  Doctor 
Graham,  "  The  Man  with  a  Scar,"  the  Mosk  family  —  father, 
mother,  and  daughter  —  Gabriel  Pendle,  Miss  Winchello,  and, 
last  but  not  least,  Mr.  Baltic  —  a  detective  so  unique  in  char- 
acter and  methods  as  to  make  Conan  Doyle  turn  green  with 
envy. 

All  in  all,  this  story  is  so  rich  in  the  essential  elements  of 
worthy  fiction  —  in  characterization,  exciting  adventure,  sug- 
gestions of  the  marvelous,  wit,  humor,  pathos,  and  just  enough 
of  tragedy  —  that  it  is  offered  to  the  American  public  in  all 
confidence  that  it  will  be  generally  and  heartily  welcomed. 

THE   PUBLISHERS. 


94G72S 


THE  BISHOP'S  SECRET 

CHAPTER   I 

•enter   MRS  PANSEY   AS  CHORUS* 

Of  late  years  an  anonymous  mathematician  has  declared 
that  in  the  British  Isles  the  female  population  is  seven 
times  greater  than  the  male ;  therefore,  in  these  days  is 
fulfilled  the  scriptural  prophecy  that  seven  women  shall  lay 
hold  of  one  man  and  entreat  to  be  called  by  his  name. 
Miss  Daisy  Norsham,  a  veteran  Belgravian  spinster,  decided, 
after  some  disappointing  seasons,  that  this  text  was  parti- 
cularly applicable  to  London.  Doubtful,  therefore,  of 
securing  a  husband  at  the  rate  of  one  chance  in  seven,  or 
dissatisfied  at  the  prospect  of  a  seventh  share  in  a  man,  she 
resolved  upon  trying  her  matrimonial  fortunes  in  the 
country.  She  was  plain,  this  lady,  as  slie  was  poor  ;  nor 
could  she  rightly  be  said  to  be  in  the  first  flush  of  maiden- 
hood. In  all  matters  other  than  that  of  man-catching  she 
was  shallow  past  belief.  Still,  she  did  hope,  by  dint  of 
some  brisk  campaigning  in  the  diocese  of  Beorminster,  to 
capture  a  whole  man  unto  herself. 

Her  first  step  was  to  wheedle  an  invitation  out  of  Mrs 
Pansey,  an  archdeacon's  widow — then  on  a  philanthropic 
visit  to  town — and  she  arrived,  towards  the  end  of  July,  in 
the  pleasant  cathedral  city  of  Beorminster,  in  time  to  attend 
a  reception  at  the  bishop's  palace.  I'hus  the  autumn 
manoeuvres  of  Miss  Norsham  opened  most  auspiciously. 

Mrs  Pansey,  with  whom  this  elderly  worshipper  of 
Hymen  had  elected  to  stay  during  her  visit,  was  a  gruff 
woman,  with  a  scowl,  who  '  looked  all  nose  and  eyebroA-:.' 


The  Bishop  s  Secret 

Few  ecclesiastical  matrons  were  so  well  known  in  liic  dioct-se 
of  Bf.ortninsttr  as  was  Mrs  I'ansey ;  not  many,  it  must  be 
confessed,  weie  so  ardently  hated,  for  there  were  few  pies 
mdeed  in  which  this  dear  lady  had  not  a  finger  ;  icy;  key- 
holes thruii;:h  which  her  eye  did  not  peer.  Her  memory 
and  her  tongue,  severally  and  combined,  had  ruined  half 
the  reputations  in  the  county.  In  short,  she  was  a  re- 
nowned social  bully,  and  like  most  bullies  she  gained  her 
ends  by  scaring  the  lives  out  of  meeker  and  better-bred 
peoi)le  than  herself.  These  latter  feared  her  '  scenes '  as 
she  rejoiced  in  them,  and  as  she  knew  the  pasts  of  her 
friends  from  their  cradle  upwards,  she  usually  contrived,  by 
a  p.tiless  use  of  her  famous  memory,  to  put  to  rout  anyone 
so  ill-advised  as  to  attempt  a  stand  against  her  domineering 
authority.  When  her  tall,  gaunt  figure — invariably  arrayed 
in  the  blackest  of  black  silks — was  sighted  in  a  room,  those 
present  either  scuttled  out  of  the  way  or  judiciously  held 
their  peace,  for  everyone  knew  Mrs  Pansey's  talent  for 
twisting  the  simplest  observation  into  some  evil  shape 
cilcula'.ed  to  get  its  author  into  trouble.  She  excelled 
in  this  particular  method  of  making  mischief.  Possessed 
of  ample  means  and  ample  leisure,  both  of  these  helped 
her  materially  to  build  up  her  reputation  of  a  philanthropic 
bully.  She  literally  swooped  down  upon  the  poor,  taking 
one  and  all  in  charge  to  be  fed,  physicked,  worked 
and  guided  according  to,  her  own  ideas.  In  return  for 
benefits  conferred,  she  demanded  an  unconditional  sur- 
render of  free  will.  Nobody  was  to  have  an  opinion 
but  Mrs  Pansey;  nobody  knew  what  was  good  for  them 
unless  their  ideas  coincided  with  those  of  their  patroness — 
which  they  never  did.  Mis  Pansey  hnd  never  been  a 
mother,  yet,  in  her  own  opinion,  there  was  nothing  about 
children  she  did  not  know.  She  had  not  studied  medicine, 
therefore  she  dubbed  the  doctors  a  pack  of  fools,  saying 
slie  could  cure  where  they  failed.  Be  they  tinkers,  tailors, 
soldiers,  sailors,  Mrs  Pansey  invariably  knew  more  about 
tiicir  vocations  than  they  themselves  did  or  were  ever  likely 
to  do.  In  short,  this  celebrated  lady — for  her  reputation 
was  more  than  local — was  what  the  American  so  succinctly 
terms  a  '  she-hoss' ;  and  in  a  less  enlightened  age  she  would 
indubitably  have  been  ducked  in  the  Beorflete  river  as  a 


*  Enter  Mrs  Pansey  as  Chorus ' 

meddlesome,  scolding,  clattering  jade.  Indeed,  had  any- 
one been  so  brave  as  to  ignore  the  flight  of  time  and  thus 
suppress  her,  the  righteousness  of  the  act  would  most 
assuredly  have  remained  unquestioned. 

Now,  as  Miss  Norsham  wanted,  for  her  own  purposes,  to 
'know  the  ropes,'  she  was  fortunate  to  come  within  the 
gloom  of  Mrs  Pansey's  silken  robes.  For  Mrs  Pansey 
certainly  knew  everyone,  if  she  did  not  know  everything, 
and  whomsoever  she  chaperoned  had  to  be  received  by 
Beorminster  society,  whether  Beorminster  society  liked  it  or 
not.  All  protegees  of  Mrs  Pansey  sheltered  under  the 
aegis  of  her  terrible  reputation,  and  woe  to  the  daring  person 
who  did  not  accept  them  as  the  most  charming,  the  clever- 
est, and  in  every  way  the  most  desirable  of  their  sex.  But 
in  the  memory  of  man,  no  one  had  ever  sustained  battle 
against  Mrs  Pansey,  and  so  this  feminine  Selkirk  remained 
monarch  of  all  she  surveyed,  and  ruled  over  a  community 
consisting  mainly  of  canons,  vicars  and  curates,  with  their 
respective  wives  and  offsprings.  There  were  times  when 
her  subjects  made  use  of  language  not  precisely  ecclesiastic, 
and  not  infrequently  Mrs  Pansey's  name  was  mentally 
.Deluded  in  the  Commination   Service. 

Thus  it  chanced  that  Daisy,  the  spinster,  found  herself  in 
Mrs  Pansey's  carriage  on  her  way  to  the  episcopalian  re- 
ception, extremely  well  pleased  with  herself,  her  dress,  her 
position,  and  her  social  guardian  angel.  The  elder  lady 
was  impressively  gloomy  in  her  usual  black  silk,  fashioned 
after  the  early  Victorian  mode,  when  elegance  invariably 
gave  place  to  utility.  Her  headgear  dated  back  to  the  later 
Georgian  epoch.  It  consisted  mainly  of  a  gauze  turban 
twinkling  with  jet  ornaments.  Her  bosom  was  defended 
by  a  cuirass  of  cold-looking  steol  beads,  finished  off  at  the 
throat  by  a  gigantic  brooch,  containing  the  portrait  and 
hair  of  the  late  archdeacon.  Her  skirts  were  lengthy  and 
voluminous,  so  that  they  swept  the  floor  with  a  creepy 
rustle  like  the  frou-frou  of  a  brocaded  spectre.  She  wore 
black  silk  mittens,  and  on  either  bony  wrist  a  band  of 
black  velvet  clasped  with  a  large  cameo  set  hideously  in 
pale  gold.  Thus  attired — a  veritable  caricature  by  Leech 
— this  survival  of  a  prehistoric  age  sat  rigidly  upright  and 
mangled  the  reputations  of  all  and  sundry. 


The  Bishops  Secret 

Miss  Norsham,  in  all  but  age,  was  very  modern  indeed. 
Her  neck  was  lean  ;  her  arms  were  thin.  She  made  up  f<^r 
lack  of  quality  by  display  of  quantity.  In  her  decoiUte 
costume  she  appeared  as  if  composed  of  bones  and 
diamonds.  The  diamonds  represented  the  bulk  of  Miss 
Norsham's  wealth,  and  she  used  them  not  only  for  the 
adornment  of  her  uncomely  person,  but  for  the  deception 
of  any  possible  suitor  into  the  belief  that  she  was  well 
dowered.  She  affected  gauzy  fabrics  and  fluttering  baby 
ribbons,  so  that  her  dress  was  as  the  fleecy  flakes  of  snow 
clinging  to  a  well-preserved  ruin. 

For  the  rest  she  had  really  beautiful  eyes,  a  somewhat 
elastic  mouth,  and  a  straight  iiose  well  powdered  to  gloss 
over  its  chronic  redness.  Her  teeth  were  genuine  and  she 
cultivated  what  society  novelists  term  silvery  peals  of 
laughter.  In  every  way  she  accentuated  or  obliterated 
nature  in  her  efforts  to  render  herself  attractive. 

Ichabod  was  writ  large  on  her  powdered  brow,  and  it 
needed  no  great  foresight  to  foresee  the  speedy  approach  of 
acidulated  spinsterhood.  But,  to  do  her  justice,  this  re- 
gretable  state  of  single  blessedness  was  far  from  being  her 
own  fault.  If  her  good  fortune  had  but  equalled  her 
courage  and  energy  she  should  have  relinquished  celibacy 
years  ago. 

'Oh,  dear — dear  Mrs  Pansey,'  said  the  younger  lady, 
strong  in  adjectives  and  interjections  and  reduplication  of 
both,  '  is  the  bishop  very,  very  sweet  ? ' 

'  He's  sweet  enough  as  bishops  go,'  growled  Mrs  Pansey, 
in  her  deep-toned  voice.  '  He  might  be  better,  and  he 
might  be  worse.  There  is  too  much  Popish  superstition 
and  worship  of  idols  about  him  for  my  taste.  If  the 
departed  can  smell,'  added  the  lady,  with  an  illustrative 
sniff,  '  the  late  archdeacon  must  turn  in  his  grave  when 
those  priests  of  Baal  and  Dagon  burn  incense  at  the  morn- 
in:^  service.  Still,  Bishop  Pendle  has  his  good  points, 
although  he  is  a  time  server  and  a  sycophant.' 

'  Is  he  one  of  the  Lancashire  Pendles,  dear  Mrs  Pansey  ? ' 

*A  twenty-fifth  cousin  or  thereabouts.  He  says  he  is  a 
nearer  relation,  but  I  know  much  more  about  it  than  he 
does.  If  you  want  an  ornamental  bishop  with  good  legs 
for  gaiters,  and  a  portly  figure   for  an  apron,  Dr  Pendle's 


*  Enter  Mrs  Pansey  as  Chorus ' 

the  man.     But  as  a  God-fearing  priest '  (with  a  groan),  '  a 
simple  worshipper'  (groan)  'and  a  lowly,  repentant  sinner' 
(groan),  'he  leaves  much — much  to  be  desired.' 
'  Oh,  Mrs  Pansey,  the  dear  bishop  a  sinner  ? ' 

*  Why  not  ? '  cried  Mrs  Pansey,  ferociously ;  '  aren't  we  all 
miserable  sinners?  Dr  Pendle's  a  human  worm,  just  as 
you  are — as  I  am.  You  may  dress  him  in  lawn  sleeves  and 
a  mitre,  and  make  pagan  genuflections  before  his  throne, 
but  he  is  only  a  worm  for  all  that.* 

*What  about  his  wife?'  asked  Daisy,  to  avert  further 
expansion  of  this  text. 

'  A  poor  thing,  my  dear,  with  a  dilated  heart  and  not  as 
much  blood  in  her  body  as  would  fill  a  thimble.  She 
ought  to  be  in  a  hospital,  and  would  be,  too,  if  I  had  my 
way.  Lolling  all  day  long  on  a  sofa,  and  taking  glasses  of 
champagne  between  doses  of  iron  and  extract  of  beef; 
then  giving  receptions  and  wearing  herself  out.  How  he 
ever  came  to  marry  the  white-faced  doll  I  can't  imagine. 
She  was  a  Mrs  Creagth  when  she  caught  him.' 

*  Oh,  really !  a  widow  ? ' 

*Of  course,  of  course.  You  don't  suppose  she's  a 
bigamist  even  though  he's  a  fool,  do  you?'  and  the  eye- 
brows went  up  and  down  in  the  most  alarming  manner. 
'The  bishop — he  was  a  London  curate  then — married  her 
some  eight  -  and  -  twenty  years  ago,  and  I  daresay  he  has 
repented  of  it  ever  since.  They  have  three  children — 
George'  (with  a  whisk  of  her  fan  at  the  mention  of  each 
name),  'who  is  a  good-looking  idiot  in  a  line  regiment; 
Gabriel,  a  curate  as  white-faced  as  his  mother,  and  no 
doubt  afflicted  as  she  is  with  heart  trouble.  He  was  in 
Whitechapel,  but  his  father  put  him  in  a  curacy  here — 
it  was  sheer  nepotism.  Then  there  is  Lucy;  she  is  the 
best  of  the  bunch,  which  is  not  saying  much.  They've 
engaged  her  to  young  Sir  Harry  Brace,  and  now  they 
are  giving  this  reception  to  celebrate  having  inveigled 
him  into  the  match.' 

*  Engaged  ? '  sighed  the  fair  Daisy,  enviously.  '  Oh,  do  tell 
me  if  this  girl  is  really,  really  pretty.* 

'Humph,'  said  the  eyebrows,  'a  pale,  washed-out  rag  of 
a  creature — but  what  can  you  expect  from  such  a  mother? 
No  brains,  no  style,  no  conversation ;  always  a  simpering. 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

weak-eyed  rag  baby.  Oh,  my  dear,  what  fools  men 
are!  ' 

'Ah,  you  may  well  say  that,  dear  Mrs  Pansey,' assented 
the  spinster,  tliinking  wratlifuUy  of  this  unknown  girl  who 
had  succeeded  where  she  had  failed.  'Is  it  a  very,  very 
good  match  ? ' 

'Ten  thousand  a  year  and  a  fine  estate,  my  dear.  Sir 
Harry  is  a  nice  young  fellow,  but  a  fool.  An  absentee 
landlord,  too,'  grumbled  Mrs  Puiisey,  resentfully.  '  Always 
running  over  the  world  poking  his  nose  into  what  doesn't 
concern  him,  like  the  Wandering  Jew  or  the  Flying  Dutch- 
man. Ah,  my  dear,  husbinds  are  not  wliat  they  used  to 
be.  The  late  archdeacon  never  left  his  fireside  while  I 
was  there.  I  knew  better  than  to  let  liim  go  to  Paris  or 
Pekin,  or  some  of  those  sinks  of  iniquity.  Cook  and  Gaze 
indeed  ! '  snorted  Mrs  Pansey,  indignantly  ;  '  I  would  abolish 
them  by  Act  of  Parliament.  They  turn  men  in'o  so  many 
Satans  walking  to  and  fro  upon  the  earth.  Oh,  the  im- 
morality of  these  latter  days !  No  wonder  the  end  of  all 
things  is  predicted.' 

Miss  Norshara  paid  little  attention  to  the  latter  portion 
of  this  diatribe.  As  Sir  Harry  Brace  was  out  of  the  matri- 
monial market  it  conveyed  no  information  likely  to  be  of 
use  to  her  in  the  coming  campaign.  She  wished  to  be  in- 
formed as  to  the  number  and  the  names  of  eligible  men, 
and  forewarned  with  regard  to  possible  rivals. 

'And  who  is  really  and  truly  the  most  beautiful  girl  in 
Beorminster?  '  she  asked  abruptly. 

'  Mab  Arden,'  replied  Mrs  Pansey,  promptly.  'There, 
now,'  with  an  emphatic  blow  of  her  fan,  'she  is  pretty, 
if  you  like,  though  I  daresay  there  is  more  art  than 
nature  about  her.' 

'Who  is  Mab  Arden,  dear  Mrs  Pansey?' 

'She  is  Miss  Whichello's  niece,  that's  who  she  is.' 

'Whichello?  Oh,  good  gracious  me!  what  a  very,  very 
funny  name.     Is  Miss  Whichello  a  foreigner?' 

'Foreigner?  Bah!'  cried  Mrs  Pansey,  like  a  stentorian 
ram,  '  she  belongs  to  a  good  old  English  family,  and,  in 
my  opinion,  slie  disgraces  them  thoroughly.  A  meddle- 
some old  mud,  who  wants  to  foist  her  niece  on  to  (Jcorge 
Pendle ;  and  she's  likely  to  succeed,  too,'  added  the  lady, 

6 


*  Enter  Mrs  Pansey  as  Chorus ' 

rubbing  her  nose  with  a  vexed  air,  'for  the  young  ass  is 
in  love  with  Mab,  although  she  is  three  years  older  than 
he  is.  Mr  Cargrim  also  likes  the  girl,  though  I  daresay 
it  is  money  with  him.' 

*  Really  !  Mr  Cargrim  ? ' 

*Yes,  he  is  the  bishop's  chaplain;  a  Jesuit  in  disguise 
I  call  him,  with  his  moping  and  mowing  and  sneaky  ways. 
Butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth ;  oh,  dear  no  !  I  gave 
my  opinion  about  him  pretty  plainly  to  Dr  Graham,  I  can 
tell  you,  and  Graham's  the  only  man  with  brains  in  this 
city  of  fools.' 

'  Is  Dr  Graham  young  ? '  asked  Miss  Norsham,  in  the  faint 
hope  that  Mrs  Pansey's  list  of  inhabitants  might  include  a 
wealthy  bachelor. 

'Young?  He's  sixty,  if  you  call  that  young,  and  in  his 
second  childhood.  An  Atheist,  too.  Tom  Payn,  Colonel 
Ingersoll,  Viscount  Amberly — those  are  his  gods,  the  pagan  ! 
I'd  burn  him  on  a  tar-barrel  if  I  had  my  way.  It's  a  pity  we 
don't  stick  to  some  customs  of  our  ancestors.' 

'Oh,  dear  me,  are  there  no  young  men  at  all?' 

'Plenty,  and  all  idiots.  Brainless  officers,  whose  wives 
would  have  to  ride  on  a  baggage- waggon  ;  silly  youn^ 
squires,  whose  ideal  of  womanhood  is  a  brazen  barmaid ; 
and  simpering  curates,  put  into  the  Church  as  the  fools  of 
their  respective  families.  I  don't  know  what  men  are 
coming  to,'  groaned  Mrs  Pansey.  'The  late  archdeacon 
was  clever  and  pious;  he  honoured  and  obeyed  me  as 
the  marriage  service  says  a  man  should  do.  I  was  the 
light  of  the  dear  man's  eyes.' 

Had  Mrs  Pansey  stated  that  she  had  been  the  terror  of 
the  late  archdeacon's  life  she  would  have  been  vastly 
nearer  the  truth,  but  such  a  remark  never  occurred  to  her. 
Although  she  had  bullied  and  badgered  the  ^retched  little 
man  until  he  had  seized  the  first  opportunity  of  finding  in 
the  grave  the  peace  denied  him  in  life,  she  really  and  truly 
believed  that  she  had  been  a  model  wife.  The  egotism  of 
first  person  singular  was  so  firmly  ingrained  in  the  woman 
that  she  could  not  conceive  what  a  scourge  she  was  to  man- 
kind in  general ;  what  a  trial  she  had  betn  to  her  poor  de- 
parted husband  in  particular.  If  the  late  Archdeacon  Pansey 
had  not  died  he  would  doubtltss  have  become  a  missionary 


The  Bishop 5  Secret 

to  some  cannibal  tribe  in  the  South  Seas  in  the  hope  that 
his  tough  helpmate  would  be  converted  into  'long-pig.' 
But,  unluckily  for  Beorminster,  he  was  dead  and  his  relict 
was  a  mourning  widow,  who  constantly  referred  to  her 
victim  as  a  perfect  husband.  And  yet  Mrs  Pansey  con- 
sidered that  Anthony  Trollope's  celebrated  Mrs  Proudie 
was  an  overdrawn  character. 

As  to  Miss  Norsham,  she  was  in  the  depths  of  despair, 
for,  if  Mrs  Pansey  was  to  be  believed,  there  was  no  eli,i;ible 
husband  for  her  in  Beorminster.  It  was  with  a  heavy  heart 
that  the  spinster  entered  the  palace,  and  it  was  with  the 
courage  born  of  desperation  that  she  perked  up  and  smiled 
on  the  gay  crowd  she  found  within. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE   BISHOP   IS  WANTED 

Thb  episcopalian  residence,  situate  some  distance  from 
the  city,  was  a  mediaeval  building,  enshrined  in  the  remnant 
of  a  royal  chase,  and  in  its  perfect  quiet  and  loneliness 
resembled  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  Its  com- 
posite architecture  was  of  many  centuries  and  many  styles, 
for  bishop  after  bishop  had  pulled  down  portions  and  added 
others,  had  levelled  a  tower  here  and  erected  a  wing  there, 
until  the  result  was  a  jumble  of  divers  designs,  incongruous 
but  picturesque.  Time  had  mellowed  the  various  parts 
into  one  rich  coloured  whole  of  perfect  beauty,  and  elevated 
on  a  green  rise,  surrounded  by  broad  stone  terraces,  with 
towers  and  oriels  and  turrets  and  machicolated  battlements ; 
clothed  with  ivy,  buried  amid  ancient  trees,  it  looked  like 
the  realisation  of  a  poet's  dream.  Only  long  ages  and  many 
changing  epochs ;  only  home-loving  prelates,  ample  monies, 
and  architects  of  genius,  could  have  created  so  beautiful 
and  unique  a  fabric.  It  was  the  admiration  of  transatlantic 
tourists  with  a  twang  ;  the  desire  of  millionaires.  Aladdin's 
industrious  genii  would  have  failed  to  build  such  a  master- 
piece, unless  their  masters  had  arranged  to  inhabit  it  five 
centuries  or  so  after  construction.  Time  had  created  it,  as 
Time  would  destroy  it,  but  at  present  it  was  in  perfect 
preservation,  and  figured  in  steel-plate  engravings  as  one  of 
the  stately  homes  of  England.  No  wonder  the  mitre  of 
Beorminster  was  a  coveted  prize,  when  its  gainer  could 
dwell  in  so  noble  and  matchless  a  mansion. 

As  the  present  prelate  was  an  up-to-date  bishop,  abreast 
of  his  time  and  fond  of  his  creature  comforts,  the  interior 
of  the  palace  was  modernised  completely  in  accordance  with 
the  luxurious  demands  of  nineteenth  century  civilisation. 
The  stately  reception-rooms — thrown  open   on  this  night 


The  Bishops  Secret 

to  what  the  Btorminster  Weekly  Chronicle^  strong  in  foreign 
tongues,  tautolo^ically  called  '  the  elite  zndcreme  dc  la  crime 
of  the  diocese ' — were  brilliantly  illuminated  by  electric 
lamps  and  furnished  magnificently  throughout,  in  keeping 
with  ihrir  palatial  appearance.  The  ceilings  were  painted  in 
the  Italian  style,  with  decently  clothed  Olympian  deities  ;  the 
floors  were  of  parquetry,  poii^hed  so  highly,  and  reflecting 
so  truthfully,  that  the  guests  seemed  to  be  walking,  in  some 
magical  way,  up.  n  still  water.  Noble  windows,  extending 
from  floor  to  roof,  were  draped  with  purple  curtains,  and 
stood  open  to  the  quiet  moonlit  world  without;  between 
these,  tall  mirrors  flashed  back  gems  and  colours,  moving 
figures  and  Hoods  of  amber  radiance,  and  enhanced  by  re- 
duplicated reflections  the  size  of  the  rooms.  Amid  all  this 
splendour  of  warmth  and  tints  and  light  moved  the  numerous 
guests  of  the  bishop.  Almost  every  invitation  had  been 
accepted,  for  the  receptions  at  the  palace  were  on  a  large 
and  liberal  scale,  particularly  as  regards  eating  and  drinking. 
Dr  Pendle,  in  addition  to  his  official  salary,  possessed  a 
handsome  income,  and  spent  it  in  the  lavish  style  of  a 
Cardinal  Wolsey.  He  was  wise  enough  to  know  how  the 
outward  and  visible  signs  of  prosperity  and  dignity  afiect 
the  popular  imagination,  and  frequently  invited  the  clergy 
and  laity  to  feast  at  the  table  of  Mother  Church,  to  show 
that  she  could  dispense  loaves  and  fishes  with  the  best,  and 
vie  with  Court  and  Society  in  the  splendour  and  hospitality 
of  her  entertainments.  As  he  approved  of  an  imposing 
ritual  at  the  cathedral,  so  he  affected  a  magnificent  way 
of  living  at  the  palace.  Mrs  Pansey  and  many  others 
declared  that  Dr  Pendle's  aims  in  that  direction  were 
Romish.  Perhaj^s  they  were,  but  he  could  scarcely  have 
followed  a  better  example,  since  the  Church  of  Peter 
owes  much  of  its  power  to  a  judicious  employment  of 
riches  and  ritual,  and  a  dexterous  gratification  of  the  lust 
of  the  eye.  The  Anglican  Church  is  more  dignified  now 
than  she  was  in  the  days  of  the  Georges,  and  very  rightly, 
too,  since  God's  ministers  should  not  be  the  poorest  or 
meanest  of  men. 

Naturally,  as  the  host  was  clerical  and  the  building 
ecclesiastical,  the  clergy  predominated  at  this  entertainment. 
The  bishop  and  the  dean  were  the  only  prelates  of  their 

lO 


The  Bishop  is  Wanted 

rank  present,  but  there  were  archdeacons,  and  canons  and 
rectors,  and  a  plentiful  supply  of  curates,  all,  in  their  ovii 
opinion,  bishops  in  embryo.  The  shape  and  expression  of  the 
many  faces  were  various — ascetic,  worldly,  pale,  red,  round, 
thin,  fat,  oval ;  each  one  revealed  the  character  of  its  owner. 
Some  lean,  bent  forms  were  those  of  men  tilled  with  the  fire 
of  religion  for  its  own  sake  ;  others,  stout,  jolly  gentlemen 
in  comfortable  livings,  loved  the  loaves  and  fishes  of  the 
Church  as  much  as  her  precepts.  The  descendants  of 
Friar  Tuck  and  the  Vicar  of  Bray  were  here,  as  vvcll  as 
those  who  would  have  been  Wycliffes  and  Latimers  had 
the  fires  of  Smithfield  still  been  alight.  Obsequious  curates 
bowed  down  to  pompous  prebendaries ;  bluff  rectors 
chatted  on  cordial  terms  with  suave  archdeacons  ;  and  in  the 
fold  of  the  Church  there  were  no  black  sheep  on  this  great 
occasion.  The  shepherds  and  pastors  of  the  Beorminster 
flock  were  polite,  entertaining,  amusing,  and  not  too 
masterful,  so  that  the  general  air  was  quite  arcadian. 

The  laity  also  formed  a  strong  force.  There  were  lords 
magnificently  condescending  to  commoners;  M.P.s  who 
talked  politics,  and  M.P.s  who  had  had  enough  of  that 
sort  of  thing  at  St  Stephen's  and  didn't ;  hearty  squires  from 
adjacent  county  seats ;  prim  bankers,  with  whom  the  said 
squires  were  anxious  to  be  on  good  terms,  since  they  were 
the  priests  of  Mammon ;  officers  from  near  garrison  towns, 
gay  and  lighthearted,  who  devoted  themselves  to  the  fairer 
portion  of  the  company;  and  a  sprinkling  of  barristers, 
literary  men,  hardy  explorers,  and  such  like  minnows 
among  Tritons.  Last,  but  not  least,  the  Mayor  of  Beor- 
minster was  present  and  posed  as  a  modern  Whittington 
— half  commercial  wealth,  half  municipal  dignity.  If  some 
envious  Anarchist  had  exploded  a  dynamite  bomb  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  palace  on  that  night,  the  greatest,  the  most 
intellectual,  the  richest  people  of  the  county  would  have 
come  to  an  untimely  end,  and  then  the  realm  of  England, 
like  the  people  themselves,  would  have  gone  to  pieces. 
The  Beorminster  Chronicle  reporter — also  present  with  a 
flimsy  book  and  a  restless  little  pencil — worked  up  this 
idea  on  the  spot  into  a  glowing  paragraph. 

Very  ungallantly  the  ladies  have  been  left  to  the  last ; 
but  now  the  last  shall  be  first,  although  it  is  difficult  to  do 

II 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

the  subject  justice.  The  matrons  of  surrounding  parishes, 
the  ladies  of  Beorminster  society,  the  damsels  of  town  and 
country,  were  all  present  in  their  best  attire,  chattering  and 
smiling,  and  becking  and  bowing,  after  the  observant  and 
diplomatic  ways  of  their  sex.  Such  white  shoulders  !  such 
pretty  faces !  such  Parisian  toilettes  I  such  dresses  of 
obviously  home  manufacture  never  were  seen  in  one  com- 
pany. The  married  ladies  whispered  scandal  behind  their 
fans,  and  in  a  Christian  spirit  shot  out  the  lip  of  scorn  at 
their  social  enemies ;  the  young  maidens  sought  for 
marriageable  men,  and  lurked  in  darkish  corners  for  the 
better  ensnaring  of  impressionable  males.  Cupid  unseen 
mingled  in  the  throng  and  shot  his  arrows  right  and  left, 
not  always  with  the  best  result,  as  many  post-nuptial  ex- 
periences showed.  There  was  talk  of  the  gentle  art  of 
needlework,  of  the  latest  bazaar  and  the  agreeable  address 
delivered  thereat  by  Mr  Cargrim ;  the  epicene  pastime  of 
lawn  tennis  was  touched  upon ;  and  ardent  young  persons 
discussed  how  near  they  could  go  to  Giant  Pope's  cave 
without  getting  into  the  clutches  of  its  occupant.  The 
young  men  talked  golfing,  parish  work,  horses,  church, 
male  millinery,  polo  and  shooting ;  the  young  ladies  chatted 
about  Paris  fashions  and  provincial  adaptations  thereof, 
the  London  season,  the  latest  engagement,  and  the  necessity 
of  reviving  the  flirtatious  game  of  croquet.  Black  coats, 
coloured  dresses,  flashing  jewels,  many-hued  flowers, — the 
restless  crowd  resembled  a  bed  of  gaudy  tulips  tossed  by 
the  wind.  And  all  this  chattering,  laughing,  clattering, 
gUttering  mass  of  well-bred,  well-groomed  humanity  moved, 
and  swayed,  and  gyrated  under  the  white  glare  of  the 
electric  lamps.  Urbs  in  Rus;  Belgravia  in  the  Provinces  ; 
Vanity  Fair  amid  the  cornfields ;  no  wonder  this  entertain- 
ment of  Bishop  and  Mrs  Pendle  was  the  event  of  the 
Beorminster  year. 

Like  an  agreeable  Jupiter  amid  adoring  mortals,  the 
bishop,  with  his  chaplain  in  attendance,  moved  through 
the  rooms,  bestowing  a  word  here,  a  smile  there,  and  a 
hearty  welcome  on  all.  A  fine-looking  man  was  the  Bishop 
of  Beorminster  ;  as  stately  in  appearance  as  any  prelate 
drawn  by  Du  Maurier.  He  was  over  six  feet,  and  carried 
himself  in  a  soldierly  fashion,  as  became  a  leader   of  the 

13 


The  Bishop  is  Wanted 

Church  Mih'tant.  His  legs  were  all  that  could  be  desired 
to  fill  out  episcopalian  gaiters ;  and  his  bland,  clean-shaven 
face  beamed  with  smiles  and  benignity.  But  Bishop 
Pendle  was  not  the  mere  figure-head  Mrs  Pansey's 
malice  declared  him  to  be;  he  had  great  administrative 
powers,  great  organising  capabilities,  and  controlled  his 
diocese  in  a  way  which  did  equal  credit  to  his  heart  and 
head.  As  he  chatted  with  his  guests  and  did  the  honours 
of  the  palace,  he  seemed  to  be  the  happiest  of  men,  and 
well  worthy  of  his  exalted  post.  With  a  splendid  position, 
a  charming  wife,  a  fine  family,  an  obedient  flock  of  clergy 
and  laity,  the  bishop's  lines  were  cast  in  pleasant  places. 
There  was  not  even  the  proverbial  crumpled  rose-leaf  to 
render  uncomfortable  the  bed  he  had  made  for  himself. 
He  was  like  an  ecclesiastical  Jacob — blessed  above  all  men. 
'  Well,  bishop  ! '  said  Dr  Graham,  a  meagre  sceptic,  who 
did  not  believe  in  the  endurance  of  human  felicity,  'I 
congratulate  you.' 

•  On  my  daughter's  engagement  ?  *  asked  the  prelate, 
smiling  pleasantly. 

*  On  everything.  Your  position,  your  family,  your  health, 
your  easy  conscience ;  all  is  too  smooth,  too  well  with  you. 
It  can't  last,  your  lordship,  it  can't  last,'  and  the  doctor 
shook  his  bald  head,  as  no  doubt  Solon  did  at  Croesus  when 
he  snubbed  that  too  fortunate  monarch. 

*  I  am  indeed  blessed  in  the  condition  of  life  to  which 
God  has  been  pleased  to  call  me.' 

'  No  doubt !  No  doubt !  But  remember  Polycrates, 
bishop,  and  throw  your  ring  into  the  sea.' 

*My  dear  Dr  Graham,'  said  the  bishop,  rather  stifRy,  *I 
do  not  believe  in  such  paganism.  God  has  blessed  me 
beyond  my  deserts,  no  doubt,  and  I  thank  Him  in  all 
reverence  for  His  kindly  care.' 

'  Hum  !  Hum  ! '  muttered  Graham,  shaking  his  head. 
•When  men  thank  fortune  for  her  gifts  she  usually  turns 
her  back  on  them.* 

•  I  am  no  believer  in  such  superstitions,  doctor.' 

*Well,  well,  bishop,  you  have  tempted  the  gods,  let  us 
see  what  they  will  do.' 

'Gods  or  God,  doctor?'  demanded  the  bishop,  witb 
magnificent  displeasure. 

«3 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'Whichever  you  like,  my  lord  ;  whichever  you  like.' 

The  bishop  was  nettled  and  rather  chilled  by  this 
pessimism.  He  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  as  a  Cimrchman  to 
administer  a  rebuke;  but  Dr  Graham's  pagan  views  wcy 
well  known,  and  a  correction,  however  dexterously  adir;:)- 
istered,  would  only  lead  to  an  argument,  A  controversy 
with  Graham  was  no  joke,  as  he  was  as  subtle  as  Socra'.e;? 
in  discovering  and  atta(  king  his  adversary's  weak  points ; 
so,  not  judging  the  present  a  fitting  occasion  to  risk  a  fail, 
the  bishop  smoothed  away  an  incipient  frown,  and  blandly 
smiling,  moved  on,  followed  by  his  chaplain.  Graham  looked 
grimly  after  this  modern  Cardinal  Wolsey. 

*  I  have  never,'  soliloquised  the  sceptic,  *  I  have  never 
known  a  man  without  his  skeleton.  I  wonder  if  you  have 
one,  my  lord.  You  look  cheerful,  you  seem  thoroughly 
happy;  but  you  are  too  fortunate.  If  you  have  not  a 
skeleton  now,  I  feel  convinced  you  will  have  to  build  a 
cupboard  for  one  shortly.  You  thank  blind  fortune  under  ' 
the  alias  of  God  ?  Well !  well !  we  shall  see  the  result  of 
your  thanks.  Wolsey!  Napoleon!  Bismarck!  they  all  fell 
when  most  prosperous.     Hum  !  hum  !  hum  1  * 

Dr  Graham  had  no  reason  to  make  this  speech,  bej'ond 
his  belief — founded  upon  experience — that  calms  are  always 
succeeded  by  storms.  At  present  the  bishop  stood  under 
a  serene  sky ;  and  in  no  quarter  could  Graham  descry  the 
gathering  of  the  tempest  he  prophesied.  But  for  all  that  he 
had  a  premonition  that  evil  days  were  at  hand ;  and, 
sceptic  as  he  was,  he  could  not  shake  off  the  uneasy  feeling. 
His  mother  had  been  a  Highland  woman,  and  the  Celt  is 
said  to  be  gifted  with  second  sight.  Perhaps  Graham 
inherited  the  maternal  gift  of  forecasting  the  future,  for 
he  glanced  ominously  at  the  stately  form  of  his  host,  and 
sho'k  his  head.  He  thought  the  bishop  was  too  confident 
of  continuous  sunshine. 

In  the  meantime,  Dr  Pendle,  quite  free  from  such  fore- 
bodings, unfortunately  came  within  speaking  distance  of 
Mrs  Pansey,  who,  in  her  bell  of  St  Paul's  voice,  was  talking 
to  a  group  of  n^eek  listeners.  Daisy  Norsham  had  long 
ago  seized  upon  Gabriel  Pendle,  and  was  chatting  with 
him  on  the  edge  of  the  circle,  quite  heedless  of  her 
chaperon's  monologue.     When  Mrs  Pansey  saw  the  bishop 

14 


The  Bishop  is  Wanted 

she  swooped  down  on  him  before  he  could  get  out  of  the 
way,  which  he  would  have  done  had  courtesy  permitted  it 
Mrs  Pansey  was  the  one  person  Dr  Pendle  dreaded,  and  if 
the  late  archdeacon  had  been  alive  he  would  have  en- 
couraged the  missionary  project  with  all  his  heart.  'To 
every  man  his  own  fear.'     Mrs  Pansey  was  the  bishop's. 

*  Bishop ! '  cried  the  lady,  in  her  most  impressive  archi- 
diaconal  manner,  'about  that  public-house.  The  Derby 
Winner,  it  must  be  removed.' 

Cargrim,  who  was  deferentially  smiling  at  his  lordship's 
elbow,  cast  a  swift  glance  at  Gabriel  when  he  heard  Mrs 
Pansey's  remark.  He  had  a  belief — founded  upon  spying 
— that  Gabriel  knew  too  much  about  the  public-house 
mentioned,  which  was  in  his  district ;  and  this  belief  was 
strengthened  when  he  saw  the  young  man  start  at  the 
sound  of  the  name.  Instinctively  he  kept  his  eyes  on 
Gabriel's  face,  which  looked  disturbed  and  anxious ;  too 
much  so  for  social  requirements. 

'  It  must  be  removed,'  repeated  the  bishop,  gently  ;  •  and 
why,  Mrs  Pansey? ' 

'  Why,  bishop  ?  You  ask  why  ?  Because  it  is  a  hot-bed 
of  vice  and  betting  and  gambling ;  that's  why  !  * 

*  But  I  really  cannot  see — I  have  not  the  power — ' 

•It's  near  the  cathedral,  too,'  interrupted  Mrs  Pansey, 
whose  manners  left  much  to  be  desired.     *  Scandalous  1 ' 

•  When  God  erects  a  house  of  prayer, 
The  devil  builds  a  chapel  there. 

*  Isn't  it  your  duty  to  eradicate  plague-spots,  bishop  ?  * 
Before   Dr  Pendle  could  answer  this  rude   question,  a 

servant  approached  and  spoke  in  a  whisper  to  his  master. 

The  bishop  looked  surprised. 

*A  man  to  see  me  at  this  hour — at  this  time,'  said  he, 

repeating  the  message  aloud.     '  Who  is  he  ?     What  is  his 

name  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know,  your  lordship.  He  refused  to  give  his 
name,  but  he  insists  upon  seeing  your  lordship  at  once.* 

*  I  can't  see  him  ! '  said  the  bishop,  sharply ;  '  let  him  call 
to-morrow.* 

'  My  lord,  he  says  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.' 

Dr  Pendle  frowned.   'Most  unbecoming  language  I'  he 

15 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

murmured.    '  Perhaps   it  may  be  as  well  to  humour  him. 
Where  is  he  ?  ' 

•In  the  entrance  hall,  your  lordship!' 

'Take  him  into  the  library  and  say  I  will  see  him  shortly. 
Most  unusual,'  said  the  bishop  to  himself.  Then  added 
aloud,  '  Mrs  Pansey,  I  am  called  away  for  a  moment ;  pray 
excuse  me.' 

'  We  must  talk  about  The  Derby  Winner  later  on,'  said 
Mrs  Pansey,  determinedly. 

'  Oh,  yes  ! — that  is — really — I'll  see.' 

•  Shall  I  accompany  your  lordship  ?  '  murmured  Cargrim, 
officiously. 

•No,  Mr  Cargrim,  it  is  not  necessary.  I  must  see  this 
man  as  he  speaks  so  strongly,  but  I  daresay  he  is  only  some 
pertinacious  person  who  thinks  that  a  bibiiop  should  be  at 
the  complete  disposal  of  the  public — the  exacting  public  ! ' 

With  this  somewhat  petulant  speech  Dr  Pendle  walked 
away,  not  sorry  to  find  an  opportunity  of  slipping  out  of  a 
noisy  argument  with  Mrs  Pansey.  That  lady's  parting 
words  were  that  she  should  expect  him  back  in  ten  minutes 
to  settle  the  question  of  The  Derby  Winner ;  or  rather 
to  hear  how  she  intended  to  settle  it.  Cargrim,  pleased 
at  being  left  behind,  since  it  gave  him  a  chance  of  watching 
Gabriel,  urged  Mrs  Pansey  to  further  discussion  of  the 
question,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  such  dis- 
cussion visibly  disconcerted  the  curate. 

And  Dr  Pendle  ?  In  all  innocence  he  left  the  reception- 
rooms  to  speak  with  his  untoward  visitor  in  the  library ;  but 
although  he  knew  it  not,  he  was  entering  upon  a  dark  and 
tortuous  path,  the  end  of  which  he  was  not  destined  to  see 
for  many  a  long  day.  Dr  Graham's  premonition  was  likely 
to  prove  true,  for  in  the  serene  sky  under  which  the  bishop 
had  moved  for  so  long,  a  tempest  was  gathering  fast  He 
should  have  taken  the  doctor's  advice  and  have  sacrificed 
his  ring  like  Polycrates,  but,  as  in  the  case  of  that  old  pagan, 
the  gods  might  have  tossed  back  the  gift  and  pursued  their 
relentless  aims.  The  bishop  had  no  thoughts  like  these. 
As  yet  he  had  no  skeleton,  but  the  man  in  the  library  was 
about  to  open  a  cupboard  and  let  out  its  grisly  tenant  to 
haunt  prosperous  Bishop  Pendle.  To  him,  as  to  all  men, 
evil  had  come  at  the  appointed  hour. 

i6 


1 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   UNFORESEEN    HAPPENS 

*  I  FEAR,*  said  Cargrim,  with  a  gentle  sigh,  *  I  fear  you  are 

right  about  that  public-house,  Mrs  Pansey.' 

The  chaplain  made  this  remark  to  renew  the  discussion, 
and  if  possible  bring  Gabriel  into  verbal  conflict  with  the 
lady.  He  had  a  great  idea  of  managing  people  by  getting 
them  under  his  thumb,  and  so  far  quite  deserved  Mrs 
Pansey's  epithet  of  a  Jesuit.  Of  late — as  Cargrim  knew  by 
a  steady  use  of  his  pale  blue  eyes — the  curate  had  been 
visiting  The  Derby  Winner,  ostensibly  on  parochial  busi- 
ness connected  with  the  ill-health  of  Mrs  Mosk,  the  land- 
lord's wife.  But  there  was  a  handsome  daughter  of  the 
invalid  who  acted  as  barmaid,  and  Gabriel  was  a  young  and 
inflammable  man ;  so,  putting  this  and  that  together,  the 
chaplain  thought  he  discovered  the  germs  of  a  scandal. 
Hence  his  interest  in  Mrs  Pansey's  proposed  reforms. 

•Right!'  echoed  the  archidiaconal  widow,  loudly,  'of 
course  I  am  right.  The  Derby  Winner  is  a  nest  of  hawks. 
William  Mosk  would  have  disgraced  heathen  Rome  in  its 
worst  days  ;  as  for  his  daughter — well !  *  Mrs  Pansey  threw 
a  world  of  horror  into  the  ejaculation. 

'  Miss  Mosk  is  a  well-conducted  young  lady,'  said  Gabriel, 
growing  red  and  iiijudicious. 

'  Lady  ! '  bellowed  Mrs  Pansey,  shaking  her  fan ;  '  and 
since  when  have  brazen,  painted  barmaids  become  ladies, 
Mr  Pendle  ? ' 

•  She  is  most  attentive  to  her  sick  mother,'  protested  the 
curate,  wincing. 

'  No  doubt,  sir.  I  presume  even  Jezebel  had  some  re- 
deeming qualities.  Rubbish  !  humbug  !  don't  tell  me  I  Can 
good  come  out  of  Nazareth  ? ' 

•  Good  did  come  out  of  Nazareth,  Mrs  Pansey.' 

B  17 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

•That  is  enough,  Mr  Pendle  ;  do  not  pollute  young  cars 
with  blasphemy.  And  you  the  s(/n  of  a  bishop — the  curate 
of  a  parish !  Remember  what  is  to  be  the  portion  of 
mockers,  sir.  What  happened  to  the  men  who  threw 
stones  at  David  ? ' 

'  Oh,  but  really,  dear  Mrs  Pansey,  you  know  Mr  Pendle 
is  not  throwing  stones.' 

'  People  who  live  in  glass  houses  dare  not,  my  dear.  I 
doubt  your  interest  in  ihis  young  person,  Mr  Pendle.  She 
is  one  who  tires  her  head  and  paints  her  face,  lying  in 
wait  for  comely  youths  that  she  may  destroy  them.     She — ' 

'  Excuse  me,  Airs  Pansey  ! '  cried  Gabriel,  with  an  angry 
look,  'you  speak  too  freely  and  too  ignoranily.  The 
Derby  Winner  is  a  well-conducted  house,  for  Mrs  Mosk 
looks  after  it  personally,  and  her  daughter  is  an  excellent 
young  woman.  I  do  not  defend  the  father,  but  I  hope  to 
bring  him  to  a  sense  of  his  errors  in  time.  Th.ere  is  a 
charity  which  thinketh  no  evil,  Mrs  Pansey,'  and  with  great 
heat  Gabriel,  forgi.uing  his  manners,  walked  off  without 
taking  leave  of  either  the  lady  or  Miss  Norsham.  Mrs 
Pansey  tossed  her  turban  and  snorted,  but  seeing  very 
plainly  that  she  had  gone  too  far,  held  for  once  her 
virulent  tongue.  Cargrim  rubbed  his  hands  and  laughed 
softly. 

'  Our  young  friend  talks  warmly,  Mrs  Pansey.  The 
natural  chivalry  of  youth,  my  dear  lady — nothing  more.* 

'  I'll  make  it  my  business  to  assure  myself  that  it  is 
nothing  more,'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  in  low  tones.  'I  fear  very 
much  that  the  misguided  young  man  has  fallen  into  the 
lures  of  this  daughter  of  Heth.  Do  you  know  anything 
about  her,  Mr  Cargrim  ?  ' 

Too  wise  to  commit  himself  to  speech,  the  chaplain  cast 
up  his  pale  eyes  and  looked  volumes.  This  was  quite 
enough  for  Mrs  Pansey;  she  scented  evil  like  a  social 
vulture,  and  taking  Cargrim's  arm  dragged  him  away  to 
find  out  all  the  bad  she  could  about  The  Derby  Winner 
and  its  too  attractive  barmaid. 

Left  to  herself.  Miss  Norsham  seized  upon  Dean  Alder, 
to  whom  she  had  been  lately  introduced,  and  played  with 
the  artillery  of  her  eyes  on  that  unattractive  churchman. 
Mr  Dean  was  old  and  wizen,  but  he  was  unmarried  and 

iS 


Th£  Uftforeseen  Happens 

rich,  so  Miss  Norsham  tliought  it  might  be  worth  her  while 
to  play  Vivien  to  this  clerical  Merlin.  His  weak  point, 
— speedily  discovered, — was  archaeology,  and  she  was 
soon  listening  to  a  dry  description  of  his  researches  into 
Beorminster  municipal  chronicles.  But  it  was  desperately 
hard  work  to  lix  her  attention. 

'Be(  rniinster,'  explained  the  pedantic  dean,  not  un- 
moved by  his  listener's  artificial  charms,  '  is  derived  from 
two  Anglo-Saxon  words — Beorh  a  hill,  and  mynster  the 
church  of  a  monastery.  Anciently,  our  city  was  called 
Beorhmynster,  "  the  church  of  the  hill,"  for,  as  you  can  see, 
my  dear  young  lady,  our  cathedral  is  built  on  the  top  of  a 
considf^rable  rise,  and  thence  gained  its  name.  The  towns- 
folk were  formerly  vassals,  and  even  serfs,  of  the  monastery 
which  was  destroyed  by  Henry  VIII. ;  but  the  Reformation 
brought  about  by  that  king  put  an  end  to  the  abbot's 
power.  The  head  of  the  Beorhmynster  monastery  was  a 
mitred  abbot — ' 

'And  Bishop  Pendle  is  a  mitred  bishop,'  interposed  the 
fair  Daisy,  to  show  the  quickness  of  her  understanding,  and 
thereby  displaying  her  ignorance, 

'AH bishops  are  mitred,'  said  Dr  Alder,  testily;  'acrozier 
and  a  mitre  are  the  symbols  of  their  high  office.  But  the 
Romish  abbots  of  Beorhmynster  were  not  bishops  although 
they  were  mitred  prelates.' 

'  Oh,  how  very,  very  amusing,'  cried  Daisy,  suppressing  a 
yawn.  '  And  the  name  of  the  river,  dear  Mr  Dean  ?  Does 
Beorflete  mean  the  church  of  the  hill  too  ? ' 

'Certainly  not,  Miss  Norsham.  "Flete," formerly  "fleot," 
is  a  Scandinavian  word  and  signifies  "a  flood,"  "a  stream," 
"a  channel."  Beorhfleot,  or — as  we  now  erroneously  call 
it — Beorflete,  means,  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  the  flood  or 
stream  of  the  hill.  Even  in  Normandy  the  word  fleot  has 
been  corrupted,  for  the  town  now  called  Harfleur  was 
formerly  correctly  designated  "Havoflete."  But  I  am 
afraid  you  find  this  information  dull.  Miss  Norsham  •' 

This  last  remark  was  occasioned  by  Daisy  yawning.  It 
is  true  that  she  held  a  fan,  and  had  politely  hidden  her 
mouth  when  yawning ;  unfortunately,  the  fan  was  of  trans- 
parent material,  and  Daisy  quite  forgot  that  Mr  Dean  could 
see  the  yawn,  which  he  certainly  did.     In  some  confusion 

19 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

she  extricated  herself  from  an  awkward  situation  by  protest- 
ing that  she  was  not  tired  but  hungry,  and  suggested  that 
Dr  Alder  should  continue  his  instructive  conversation  at 
supper.  Mollified  by  this  dexterous  evasion,  which  he  saw 
no  reason  to  disbelieve,  the  dean  politely  escorted  his  com- 
panion to  the  regions  of  champagne  and  chicken,  both  of 
which  aided  the  lady  to  sustain  further  doses  of  dry-as-dust 
facts  dug  out  of  a  monastic  past  by  the  persevering  Dr 
Alder.  It  was  in  this  artful  fashion  that  the  town  mouse 
strove  to  ensnare  the  church  mouse,  and  succeeded  so  well 
that  when  Mr  Dean  went  home  to  his  lonely  house  he  con- 
cluded that  it  was  just  as  well  the  monastic  institution  of 
celibacy  had  been  abolished. 

On  leaving  Mrs  Pansey  in  disgust,  Gabriel  proceeded  with 
considerable  heat  into  the  next  room,  where  his  mother  held 
her  court  as  hostess.  Mrs  Pendle  was  a  pale,  slight,  small- 
framed  woman  with  golden  hair,  languid  eyes,  and  a  languid 
manner.  Owing  to  her  delicate  health  she  could  not  stand 
for  any  length  of  time,  and  therefore  occupied  a  large  and 
comfortable  arm-chair.  Her  daughter  Lucy,  who  resembled 
her  closely  in  looks,  but  who  had  more  colour  in  her  face, 
stood  near  at  hand  talking  to  her  lover.  Both  ladies  were 
dressed  in  white  silk,  with  few  ornaments,  and  looked  more 
like  sisters  than  mother  and  daughter.  Certainly  Mrs 
Pendle  appeared  surprisingly  young  to  be  the  parent  of  a 
grown-up  family,  but  her  continuance  of  youth  was  not  due 
to  art,  as  Mrs  Pansey  averred,  but  to  the  quiet  and  undis- 
turbed life  which  her  frail  health  compelled  her  to  lead. 
The  bishop  was  tenderly  attached  to  her,  and  even  at  this 
late  stage  of  their  married  life  behaved  towards  her  more 
like  a  lover  than  a  husband.  He  warded  off  all  worries 
and  troubles  from  her;  he  surrounded  her  with  pleasant 
people,  and  made  her  life  luxurious  and  peaceful  by  every 
means  obtainable  in  the  way  of  money  and  influence.  It 
was  no  wonder  that  Mrs  Pendle,  treading  the  Primrose 
Path  with  a  devoted  and  congenial  companion,  appeared 
still  young.  She  looked  as  fair  and  fragile  as  a  peri,  and  as 
free  from  mortal  cares. 

'  Is  that  you,  Gabriel  ? '  she  said  in  a  low,  soft  voice,  smil- 
ing gently  on  her  younger  and  favourite  son.  'You  look 
disturbed,  my  dear  boy  ! ' 

20 


I 


The  Unforeseen  Happens 

'Mrs  Pansey!'  said  Gabriel,  and  considering  that  the 
name  furnished  all  necessary  information,  sat  down  near  his 
mother  and  took  one  of  her  delicate  hands  in  his  own  to 
smooth  and  fondle. 

•Oh,  indeed!  Mrs  Pansey!'  echoed  the  bishop's  wife, 
smiling  still  more ;  and  with  a  slight  shrug  cast  an  amused 
look  at  Lucy,  who  in  her  turn  caught  Sir  Harry's  merry  eyes 
and  laughed  outright 

'  Old  catamaran ! '  said  Brace,  loudly. 

'  Oh,  Harry !  Hush ! '  interposed  Lucy,  with  an  anxious 
glance.     *  You  shouldn't.' 

'Why  not?  But  for  the  present  company  I  would  say 
something  much  stronger.' 

•I  wish  you  would,'  said  Gabriel,  easing  his  stiff  collar 
with  one  finger  \  •  my  cloth  forbids  me  to  abuse  Mrs  Pansey 
properly.' 

'  What  has  she  been  doing  now,  Gabriel  ? ' 

'Ordering  the  bishop  to  have  The  Derby  Winner  re- 
moved, mother.' 

'The  Derby  Winner,'  repeated  Mrs  Pendle,  in  puzzled 
tones ;  '  is  that  a  horse  ? ' 

'A  public-house,  mother;  it  is  in  my  district,  and  I  have 
been  lately  visiting  the  wife  of  the  landlord,  who  is  very  ill. 
Mrs  Pansey  wants  the  house  closed  and  the  woman  turned 
out  into  the  streets,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out ! ' 

'The  Derby  Winner  is  my  property,'  said  Sir  Harry, 
bluffly,  'and  it  sha'n't  be  shut  up  for  a  dozen  Mrs  Panseys.' 

'Think  of  a  dozen  Mrs  Panseys,'  murmured  Lucy, 
pensively. 

'  Think  of  Bedlam  and  Pandemonium,  my  dear !  Thank 
goodness  Mrs  Pansey  is  the  sole  specimen  of  her  kind. 
Nature  broke  the  mould  when  that  clacking  nuisance  was 
turned  out.     She — ' 

'  Harry  !  you  reaily  must  not  speak  so  loud.  Mrs  Pansey 
might  hear.  Come  with  me,  dear.  I  must  look  after  our 
guests,  for  I  am  sure  mother  is  tired.' 

'I  am  tired,'  assented  Mrs  Pendle,  with  a  faint  sigh. 
'Thank  you,  Lucy,  I  willingly  make  you  my  representative. 
Gabriel  will  stay  beside  me.' 

•Here  is  Miss  Tancred,'  observed  Harry  Brace,  in  an 
undertone. 

31 


The  BiJiop's  Secret 

Oh,  she  must  not  come  near  mother,'  whispered  Lucy,  in 
alarm.     'Take  her  to  the  supper-room,  Harry.' 

'  But  she'll  tell  me  the  story  of  how  she  lost  her  purse 
fit  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores,  Lucy.' 

'  You  can  bear  hearing  it  better  than  mother  can.  Be- 
sides, she'll  not  finish  it;  she  never  does.' 

Sir  Harry  groaned,  but  like  an  obedient  lover  intercepted 
a  withered  old  dame  who  was  the  greatest  bore  in  the  town. 
She  usually  told  a  digressive  story  about  a  lost  purse, 
but  hitherto  had  never  succeeded  in  getting  to  the  point,  if 
there  was  one.  Accepting  the  suggt^stion  of  supper  with 
alacrity,  she  drifted  away  on  Sir  Harry's  arm,  and  no  doubt 
mentioned  the  famous  purse  before  he  managed  to  fill 
her  mouth  and  stop  her  prosing. 

Lucy,  who  had  a  quiet  humour  of  her  own  in  spite  of  her 
demure  looks,  laughed  at  the  dejection  and  martyrdom  of 
Sir  Harry ;  and  taking  the  eagerly-proffered  arm  of  a  callow 
lieutenant,  ostentatiously  and  hopelessly  in  love  with  her, 
went  away  to  play  her  part  of  deputy  hostess.  She  moved 
from  group  to  group,  and  everywhere  received  smiles  and 
congratulations,  for  she  was  a  general  favourite,  and,  with 
the  exception  of  Mrs  Pansey,  everyone  approved  of  her 
engagement.  Behind  a  flora!  screen  a  band  of  musicians, 
who  called  themselves  the  Yellow  Hungarians,  and  individu- 
ally possessed  the  most  unpronounceable  names,  played 
the  last  waltz,  a  smooth,  swinging  melody  which  made  the 
younger  guests  long  for  a  dance.  In  fact,  the  callow  lieu- 
tenant boldly  suggested  that  a  waltz  should  be  attempted, 
with  himself  and  Lucy  to  set  the  example ;  but  his  com- 
panion snubbed  him  unmercifully  for  his  boldness,  and 
afterwards  restored  his  spirits  by  taking  him  to  the  supper- 
room.  Here  they  found  Miss  Tancred  in  the  full  flow  of 
her  purse  story;  so  Lucy,  having  pity  on  her  lover, 
bestowed  her  escort  on  the  old  lady  as  a  listener,  and  en- 
joyed supper  at  an  isolated  table  with  Sir  Harry.  The  suck- 
inr'  Wellington  could  have  murdered  Brace  with  pleasure, 
and  very  nearly  did  murder  Miss  Tancred,  for  he  plied  her 
so  constantly  with  delicacies  that  she  got  indigestion,  and 
was  thereby  unable  to  finish  about  the  purse. 

Gabriel  and  his  mother  were  not  long  left  alone,  for 
shortly  there  approached  a  brisk  old  lady,  daintily  dressed, 


The  Unforeseen  Happens 

who  looked  like  a  fairy  godmother.  She  had  a  keen  face, 
bright  eyes  like  those  of  a  squirrel,  and  in  gesture  and  walk 
and  glance  was  as  restless  as  that  animal.  This  piece  of 
alacrity  was  Miss  Whichello,  who  was  the  aunt  of  Mab 
Arden,  the  beloved  of  George  Pendle.  Mab  was  with  her, 
and,  gracious  and  tall,  looked  as  majestic  as  any  queen,  as 
she  paced  in  her  stately  manner  by  the  old  lady's  side. 
Her  beauty  was  that  of  Juno,  for  she  was  imperial  and  a 
trifle  haughty  in  her  manner.  With  dark  hair,  dark  eyes, 
and  dark  complexion,  she  looked  like  an  Oriental  princess, 
quite  different  in  appearance  to  her  apple-cheeked,  silvery- 
haired  aunt.  There  was  something  Jewish  about  her  rich, 
eastern  beauty,  and  she  might  have  been  painted  in  her 
yellow  dress  as  Esther  or  Rebecca,  or  even  as  Jael  who 
slew  Sisera  on  the  going  down  of  the  sun. 

'  Well,  good  folks,'  said  the  brisk  little  lady  in  a  brisk 
little  voice,  'and  how  are  you  both?  Tired,  Mrs  Pendle? 
Of  course,  what  else  can  you  expect  with  late  hours  and 
your  delicacies.     I  don't  believe  in  these  social  gatherings.' 

'  Your  presence  here  contradicts  that  assertion,'  said 
Gabriel,  giving  up  his  chair. 

•  Oh,  I  am  a  martyr  to  duty.  I  came  because  Mab  must 
be  amused ! ' 

'  I  only  hope  she  is  not  disappointed,'  said  Mrs  Pendle, 
kindly,  for  she  knew  how  things  were  between  her  eldest 
son  and  the  girl.  '  I  am  sorry  George  is  not  here,  my 
dear.' 

'  I  did  not  expect  him  to  be,'  replied  Mab,  in  her  grave, 
contralto  voice,  and  with  a  blush  ;  '  he  told  me  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  get  leave  from  his  colonel.' 

'  Ha !  his  colonel  knows  what  is  good  for  young  men,' 
cried  Miss  Whichello  ;  '  work  and  diet  both  in  moderate 
quantities.  My  dear  Mrs  Pendle,  if  you  only  saw  those 
people  in  the  supper-room  ! — simply  digging  their  graves  with 
their  teeth.    I  pity  the  majority  of  them  to-morrow  morning.* 

'Have  you  had  supper,  Miss  Whichello?'  asked  Gabriel. 

•  Oh,  yes  !  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  weak  whisky  and  water ; 
quite  enough,  too.  Mab  here  has  been  drinking  champagne 
recklessly.' 

•  Only  half  a  glass,  aunt ;  don't  take  away  my  character ! ' 
'  My  dear,  if  you  take  half  a  glass,  you  may  as  well  Hnish 

23 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

the  bottle  for  the  harm  it  does  you.  Champagne  is  poison ; 
much  or  little,  it  is  rank  poison.' 

'Come  away,  Miss  Arden,  and  let  us  poison  ourselves,' 
suggested  the  curate. 

'It  wouldn't  do  you  any  harm,  Mrs  Pendle,'  cried  the 
little  old  lady.  '  You  are  too  pale,  and  champagne,  in  your 
case,  would  pick  you  up.  Iron  and  slight  stimulants  are 
what  you  need.  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  careful  what 
you  cat.' 

'  I  am  not  a  dietition.  Miss  Whichello.' 

'  I  am,  my  dear  ma'am  ;  and  look  at  me — sixty-two,  and  as 
brisk  as  a  bee.  I  don't  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  ill- 
ness. In  a  good  hour  be  it  spoken,*  added  Miss  Whichello, 
thinking  she  was  tempting  the  gods.  'By  the  way,  what  is 
this  about  his  lordship  being  ill?' 

'  The  bishop  ill ! '  faltered  Mrs  Pendle,  half  rising.  '  He 
was  perfectly  well  when  I  saw  him  last  Oh,  dear  me,  what 
is  this?' 

*  He's  ill  now,  in  the  library,  at  all  events.* 

'Wait,  mother,'  said  Gabriel,  hastily.  'I  will  see  my 
father.     Don't  rise;  don't  worry  yourself;  pray  be  calm.' 

Gabriel  walked  quickly  to  the  library,  rather  astonished  to 
hear  that  his  father  was  indisposed,  for  the  bishop  had 
never  had  a  day's  illness  in  his  life.  He  saw  by  the 
demeanour  of  the  guests  that  the  indisposition  of  their  host 
was  known,  for  already  an  uneasy  feeling  prevailed,  and 
several  people  were  departing.  The  door  of  the  library  was 
closed  and  locked.  Cargrim  was  standing  sentinel  beside 
it,  evidently  irate  at  being  excluded. 

'You  can't  go  in,  Pendle,'  said  the  chaplain,  quickly. 
*Dr  Graham  is  with  his  lordship.' 

'  Is  this  sudden  illness  serious?' 

*I  don't  know.  His  lordship  refuses  to  see  anyone  but 
the  doctor.  He  won't  even  admit  me,*  said  Cargrim,  in  an 
injured  tone, 

'  What  has  caused  it  ? '  asked  Gabriel,  in  dismay. 

'  I  don't  know  ! '  replied  Cargrim,  a  second  time.  '  His 
lnrd<h:p  saw  some  stranger  who  departed  ten  minutes  ago. 
Then  he  sent  for  Dr  Graham  !  I  presume  this  stranger  is 
responsible  for  the  bishop's  illness.' 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  CURIOSITY  OF   MR   CARGRIM 

Like  that  famous  banquet,  when  Macbeth  entertained 
unawares  the  ghost  of  gracious  Duncan,  the  bishop's 
reception  broke  up  in  the  most  admired  disorder.  It  was 
not  Dr  Pendle's  wish  that  the  entertainment  should  be  cut 
short  on  his  account,  but  the  rumour — magnified  greatly — 
of  his  sudden  illness  so  dispirited  his  guests  that  they  made 
haste  to  depart ;  and  within  an  hour  the  palace  was  emptied 
of  ail  save  its  usual  inhabitants.  Dr  Graham  in  attendance 
on  the  bishop  was  the  only  stranger  who  remained,  for 
Lucy  sent  away  even  Sir  Harry,  although  he  begged  hard 
to  stay  in  the  hope  of  making  himself  useful.  And  the 
most  unpleasant  part  of  the  whole  incident  was,  that  no  one 
seemed  to  know  the  reason  of  Bishop  Pendle's  unexpected 
indisposition. 

*  He  was  quite  well  when  I  saw  him  last,'  repeated  poor 
Mrs  Pendle  over  and  over  again.  *  And  I  never  knew  him 
to  be  ill  before.     What  does  it  all  mean  ? ' 

*  Perhaps  papa's  visitor  brought  him  bad  news,'  suggested 
Lucy,  who  was  hovering  round  her  mother  with  smelling- 
salts  and  a  fan. 

Mrs  Pendle  shook  her  head  in  much  distress.  'Your 
father  has  no  secrets  from  me,'  she  said  decisively,  'and, 
from  all  I  know,  it  is  impossible  that  any  news  can  have 
upset  him  so  much.* 

*  Dr  Graham  may  be  able  to  explain,'  said  Gabriel. 

*  I  don't  want  Dr  Graham's  explanation,'  whimpered  Mrs 
Pendle,  tearfully.  '  I  dislike  of  all  things  to  hear  from  a 
stranger  what  should  be  told  to  myself.  As  your  father's 
wife,  he  has  no  right  to  shut  me  out  of  his  confidence — and 
the  library,'  finished  Mrs  Pendle,  with  an  aggrieved  after- 
thought. 

8  2$ 


The  Bishops  Secret 

Certainly  the  bishop's  conduct  was  very  strange,  and 
would  have  upset  even  a  less  nervous  woman  than  Mrs 
Pendle.  Neither  of  her  children  could  comfort  her  in  any 
way,  for,  ignorant  themselves  of  what  had  occurred,  they 
could  make  no  suggestions.  Fortunately,  at  this  mc^mcnt, 
Dr  Graham,  with  a  reassuring  smile  on  his  face,  made  his 
appearance,  and  proceeded  to  set  their  minds  at  ease. 

•  Tut !  tut !  my  dear  lady  ! '  he  said  briskly,  advancing  on 
Mrs  Pendle,  'what  is  all  this?' 

'The  bishop — ' 

'The  bishop  is  suffering  from  a  slight  indisposition 
brought  on  by  too  much  exertion  in  entertaining.  He  will 
be  all  right  to-morrow.' 

'This  visitor  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  papa's  illness, 
then  ?• 

•  No,  Miss  Lucy.  The  visitor  was  only  a  decayed  clergy- 
man in  search  of  help.' 

'Cannot  I  see  my  husband ?' was  the  anxious  question 
of  the  bishop's  wife. 

Graham  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  looked  doubtfully 
at  the  poor  lady.  '  Better  not,  Mrs  Pendle,'  he  said 
judiciously.  '  I  have  given  him  a  soothing  draught,  and 
now  he  is  about  to  lie  down.  There  is  no  occasion  for  you 
to  worry  in  the  least.  To-morrow  morning  you  will  be 
laughing  over  this  needless  alarm.  I  suggest  that  you 
should  go  to  bed  and  take  a  stiff  dose  of  valerian  to  sooth 
those  shaky  nerves  of  yours.  Miss  Lucy  will  see  to 
that.' 

'  I  should  like  to  see  the  bishop,'  persisted  Mrs  Pendle, 
whose  instinct  told  her  that  the  doctor  was  deceiving  her. 

'  Well !  well ! '  said  he,  good-humouredly,  'a  wilful  woman 
will  have  her  own  way.  I  know  you  won't  sleep  a  wink 
unless  your  mind  is  set  at  rest,  so  you  shall  &&e  the  bishop. 
Take  my  arm,  please.' 

'  I  can  walk  by  myself,  thank  you  ! '  replied  Mrs  Pendle, 
testily ;  and  nerved  to  unusual  exertion  by  anxiety,  she 
walked  towards  the  library,  followed  by  the  bishop's  family 
and  his  chaplain,  which  latter  watched  this  scene  with 
close  attention. 

'  Sh.e'll  collapse  after  this,'  said  Dr  Graham,  in  an  under- 
done to  Lucy ;  '  you'll  have  a  wakeful  niyht,  I  fear.' 

36 


The  Curiosity  of  Mr  Car  grim 

•I  don't  mind  that,  doctor,  so  long  as  there  is  no  real 
cause  for  alarm.' 

'I  give  you  my  word  of  honour,  ^^iss  Lucy,  that  this 
is  a  case  of  much  ado  about  nothing.' 

'Let  us  hope  that  such  is  the  case,'  said  Cargrim,  the 
Jesuit,  in  his  softest  tones,  whereupon  Graham  looked  at 
him  with  a  pronounced  expression  of  dislike. 

'  As  a  man,  I  don't  tell  lies ;  as  a  doctor,  I  never  make 
false  reports,'  said  he,  coldly;  'there  is  no  need  for  your 
pious  hopes,  Mr  Cargrim.' 

The  bishop  was  seated  at  his  desk  scribbling  idly  on  his 
blotting-pad,  and  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  look  of  alarm  when 
his  wife  and  family  entered.  His  usually  ruddy  colour  had 
disappeared,  and  he  was  white-faced  and  haggard  in  appear- 
ance ;  looking  like  a  man  who  had  received  a  severe  shock, 
and  who  had  not  yet  recovered  from  it.  On  seeing  his 
wife,  he  smiled  reassuringly,  but  with  an  obvious  effort, 
and  hastened  to  conduct  her  to  the  chair  he  had  vacated. 

'  Now,  my  dear,'  he  said,  when  she  was  seated,  '  thb  will 
never  do.' 

'  I  am  so  anxious,  George ! ' 

•There  is  no  need  to  be  anxious,'  retorted  the  bishop, 
in  reproving  tones.  'I  have  been  doing  too  much  work 
of  late,  and  unexpectedly  I  was  seized  with  a  faintness. 
Graham's  medicine  and  a  night's  rest  will  restore  me  to 
my  usual  strength.' 

*  It's  not  your  heart,  I  trust,  George  ? ' 

'  His  heart ! '  jested  the  doctor.  *  His  lordship's  heart  is 
as  sound  as  his  digestion.* 

'  We  thought  you  might  have  been  upset  by  bad  news, 
papa.' 

*  I  have  had  no  bad  news,  Lucy.  I  am  only  a  trifle 
overcome  by  late  hours  and  fatigue.  Take  your  mother 
to  bed ;  and  you,  my  dear,'  added  the  bishop,  kissing  his 
wife,  'don't  worry  yourself  unnecessarily.  Good-night,  and 
good  sleep.' 

'  Some  valerian  for  your  nerves,  bishop — ' 

'I  have  taken  something  for  my  nerves.  Amy.  Rest  is 
all  I  need  just  now.' 

Thus  reassured,  Mrs  Pendle  submitted  to  be  led  from 
the  library  by  Lucy.     She  was  followed  by  Gabriel,  who 

^  «7 


The  Bishops  Secret 

was  now  quite  easy  in  his  mind  about  his  father.  Cargrim 
and  (iraham  remained,  but  the  bishop,  taking  no  notice 
of  their  presence,  looked  at  the  door  through  which  his 
wife  and  children  had  vanished,  and  uttered  a  sound  some- 
thing between  a  sigh  and  a  groan. 

Dr  Graham  looked  anxiously  at  him,  and  the  look  was 
intercepted  by  Cargrim,  who  at  once  made  up  his  mind  that 
there  was  something  seriously  wrong,  which  both  Graham 
and  the  bishop  desired  to  conceal.  The  doctor  noted  the 
curious  expression  in  the  chaplain's  eyes,  and  with  bluff 
good-humour — which  was  assumed,  as  he  disliked  the  man 
— proceeded  to  turn  him  out  of  the  library.  Cargrim — 
bent  on  discovering  the  truth — protested,  in  his  usual  cat- 
like way,  against  this  sudden  dismissal. 

•  I  should  be  happy  to  sit  up  all  night  with  his  lordship,' 
he  declared. 

•  Sit  up  with  your  grandmother ! '  cried  Graham,  gruffly. 
•  Go  to  bed,  sir,  and  don't  make  mountains  out  of  mole- 
hills.' 

'  Good-night,  my  lord,'  said  Cargrim,  softly.  *  I  trust  you 
will  find  yourself  fully  restored  in  the  morning.* 

'  Thank  you,  Mr  Cargrim  ;  good-night ! ' 

When  the  chaplain  sidled  out  of  the  room,  Dr  Graham 
rubbed  his  hands  and  turned  briskly  towards  his  patient, 
who  was  standing  as  still  as  any  stone,  staring  in  a 
hypnotised  sort  of  way  at  the  reading  lamp  on  the  desk. 

'  Come,  my  lord,'  said  he,  touching  the  bishop  on  the 
shoulder,  *  you  must  take  your  composing  draught  and  get 
to  bed.     You'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning.' 

'  I  trust  so  ! '  replied  Pendle,  with  a  groan. 

'  Of  course,  bishop,  if  you  won't  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter  with  you,  I  can't  cure  you.' 

*  I  am  upset,  doctor,  that  is  all.' 

'You  have  had  a  severe  nervous  shock,'  said  Graham, 
sharply,  'and  it  will  take  some  time  for  you  to  recover  from 
it     This  visitor  brought  you  bad  news,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  No  ! '  said  the  bishop,  wincing,  *  he  did  not.' 

•  Well !  well !  keep  your  own  secrets.  I  can  do  no  more, 
so  I'll  say  good-night,'  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Dr  Pendle  took  it  and  retained  it  within  his  own  for  a 
moment.     *  Your  allusion  to  the  ring  of  Polycrates,  Graham  ! ' 

28 


The  Curiosity  of  Mr  Cargrim 

•What  of  it?' 

*  I  should  throw  my  ring  into  the  sea  also.     That  is  alL* 

*  Ha  !  ha !  You'll  have  to  travel  a  considerable  distance 
to  reach  the  sea,  bishop.  Good-night;  good-night,'  and 
Graham,  smihng  in  his  dry  way,  took  himself  out  of  the 
room.  As  he  glanced  back  at  the  door  he  saw  that  the 
bishop  was  again  staring  dully  at  the  reading  lamp. 
Graham  shook  his  head  at  the  sight,  and  closed  the  door. 

'  It  is  mind,  not  matter,'  he  thought,  as  he  put  on  hat 
and  coat  in  the  hall ;  '  the  cupboard's  open  and  the  skele- 
ton is  out.  My  premonition  was  true — true,  ^sculapius 
forgive  me  that  I  should  be  so  superstitious.  The  bishop 
has  had  a  shock.  What  is  it?  what  is  it?  That  visitor 
brought  bad  news  !  Hum  !  Hum  !  Better  to  throw  physic 
to  the  dogs  in  his  case.  Mind  diseased :  secret  trouble : 
my  punishment  is  greater  than  I  can  bear.  Put  this  and 
that  together ;  there  is  something  serious  the  matter.  Well ! 
well !  I'm  no  Paul  Pry.' 

'  Is  his  lordship  better  ? '  said  the  soft  voice  of  Cargrim 
At  his  elbow. 

Graham  wheeled  round.  '  Much  better;  good-night,'  he 
replied  curtly,  and  was  off  in  a  moment. 

Michael  Cargrim,  the  chaplain,  was  a  dangerous  man. 
He  was  thin  and  pale,  with  light  blue  eyes  and  sleek  fair 
hair;  and  as  weak  physically  as  he  was  strong  mentally. 
In  his  neat  clerical  garb,  with  a  slight  stoop  and  meek 
smile,  he  looked  a  harmless,  commonplace  young  curate 
of  the  tabby  cat  kind.  No  one  could  be  more  tactful  and 
ingratiating  than  Mr  Cargrim,  and  he  was  greatly  admired 
by  the  old  ladies  and  young  girls  of  Beorminster ;  but  the 
men,  one  and  all — even  his  clerical  brethren — disliked  and 
distrusted  him,  although  there  was  no  apparent  reason  for 
their  doing  so.  Perhaps  his  too  deferential  manners  and 
pronounced  effeminacy,  which  made  him  shun  manly  sports, 
had  something  to  do  with  his  masculine  unpopularity ;  but, 
from  the  bishop  downward,  he  was  certainly  no  favourite, 
and  in  every  male  breast  he  constantly  inspired  a  desire  to 
kick  him.  The  clergy  of  the  diocese  maintained  towards 
him  a  kind  of  'Dr  Fell '  attitude,  and  none  of  them  had 
more  to  do  with  him  than  they  could  help.  With  all  the 
will  in  the  world,  with  all  the  desire  to  interpret  brotherly 

29 


The  Bishops  Secret 

love  in  it'^  most  liberal  sense,  the  Bcorminster  Levites  found 
it  imp'v  sible  to  like  Mr  Cargrim.  Hence  he  was  a  kind 
of  clc  rical  Ishmael,  and  as  dangerous  within  as  he  looked 
harmless  without 

How  such  a  viper  came  to  warm  itself  on  the  bishop's 
hearth  no  one  could  say.  Mrs  Pansey  herself  did  not  know 
in  what  particular  way  Mr  Cargrim  had  wriggled  himself — 
80  she  expressed  it — into  his  present  snug  position.  But, 
to  speak  frankly,  there  was  no  wriggling  in  the  matter,  and 
had  the  bishop  felt  himself  called  upon  to  explain  his 
business  to  anyone,  he  could  have  given  a  very  reasonable 
account  of  the  election  of  Cargrim  to  tl.e  post  of  chaplain. 
The  young  man  was  the  son  of  an  old  schoolfellow,  to 
whom  Pendle  had  been  much  attached,  and  from  whom,  in 
the  earlier  part  of  his  career,  he  had  received  many  kind- 
nesses. This  schoolfellow — he  was  a  banker — had  become 
a  bankrupt,  a  beggar,  finally  a  suicide,  through  no  fault  of 
his  own,  and  when  dying,  had  commended  his  wife  and 
son  to  the  bishop's  care.  Cargrim  was  then  fifteen  years 
of  age,  and  being  clever  and  calculating,  even  as  a  youth, 
had  determined  to  utilise  the  bishop's  affection  for  his 
father  to  its  fullest  extent.  He  was  clever,  as  has  been 
stated  J  he  was  also  ambitious  and  unscrupulous  ;  therefore 
he  resolved  to  enter  the  profession  in  which  Dr  Pendle's 
influence  would  be  f-f  most  value.  For  this  reason,  and 
not  because  he  felt  a  call  to  the  work,  he  entered  holy 
orders.  The  result  of  his  wisdom  was  soon  apparent,  for 
after  a  short  career  as  a  curate  in  London,  he  was  appointed 
chaplain  to  the  Bishop  of  Beorminster. 

So  far,  so  good.  The  position,  for  a  young  man  of 
twenty-eight,  was  by  no  means  a  bad  one ;  the  more  so  as 
it  gave  him  a  capital  opportunity  of  gaining  a  better  one 
bv  watching  for  the  vacancy  of  a  rich  perferment  and  get- 
ting it  from  his  patron  by  asking  directly  and  immediately 
for  it.  Cargrim  had  in  his  eye  the  rectorship  of  a  wealthy, 
e.isy-going  parish,  not  far  from  Beorminster,  which  was  in 
the  gift  of  the  bishop.  The  present  holder  was  aged  and 
infirm,  and  given  so  much  to  indul;-'ence  in  j  ort  wine,  that 
the  chances  were  he  might  expire  within  a  few  months,  and 
then,  as  the  chaplain  hoped,  the  next  rector  would  be  the 
Reverend  Michael  Cargrim.     Once  that  firm  position  was 

30 


The  Curiosity  of  Mr  Carg7'im 

obtained,  he  could  bend  his  energies  to  developing  into  an 
archdeacon,  a  dean,  even  into  a  bishop,  should  his  craft 
and  fortune  serve  him  as  he  intended  they  should.  But  in 
all  these  ambitious  dreams  there  was  nothing  of  religion,  or 
of  conscience,  or  of  self-denial.  If  ever  there  was  a  square 
peg  which  tried  to  adapt  itself  to  a  round  hole,  Michael 
Cargrim,  allegorically  speaking,  was  that  article. 

With  all  his  love  for  the  father,  Dr  Pendle  could  never 
bring  himself  to  like  the  son,  and  determined  in  his  own 
mind  to  confer  a  benefice  on  him  when  possible,  if  only  to 
get  rid  of  him ;  but  not  the  rich  one  of  Heathcroft,  which 
was  the  delectable  land  of  Cargrim's  desire.  The  bishop 
intended  to  bestow  that  on  Gabriel ;  and  Cargrim,  in  his 
sneaky  way,  had  gained  some  inkling  of  this  intention. 
Afraid  of  losing  his  wished-for  prize,  he  was  bent  upon 
forcing  Dr  Pendle  into  presenting  him  with  the  living  of 
Heathcroft ;  and  to  accomplish  this  amiable  purpose  with 
the  more  certainty  he  had  conceived  the  plan  of  somehow 
getting  the  bishop  into  his  power.  Hitherto — so  open  and 
stainless  was  Dr  Pendle's  life — he  had  not  succeeded  in  his 
aims ;  but  now  matters  looked  more  promising,  for  the  bishop 
appeared  to  possess  a  secret  wh'ch  he  guarded  even  from 
the  knowledge  of  his  wife.  What  this  secret  might  be, 
Cargrim  could  not  guess,  in  spite  of  his  anxiety  to  do  so,  but 
he  intended  in  one  way  or  another  to  discover  it  and 
utilise  it  for  the  furtherance  and  attainment  of  his  own 
selfish  ends.  By  gammg  such  forbidden  knowledge  he 
hoped  to  get  Dr  Pendle  well  under  his  thumb ;  and  once 
there  the  prelate  could  be  kept  in  that  uncomfortable 
position  until  he  gratified  Mr  Cargrim's  ambition.  For  a 
humble  chaplain  to  have  the  whip-hand  of  a  powerful 
ecclesiastic  was  a  glorious  and  easy  way  for  a  meritorious 
young  man  to  succeed  in  his  profession.  Having  come  to 
this  conclusion,  which  did  more  credit  to  his  head  than 
to  his  heart,  Cargrim  sought  out  the  servant  who  had 
summoned  the  bishop  to  see  the  stranger.  A  full  acquaint- 
ance with  the  circumstances  of  the  visit  was  necessary  to  the 
development  of  the  Reverend  Michael's  ingenious  little 
plot. 

'  This  is  a  sad  thing  about  his  lordship's  indisposition, 
said  he  to  the  man  in  the  most  casual  way,  for  it  would  not 

31 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

do  to  let  the  servant  know  that  he  was  being  questioned 
for  a  doubtful  purpose. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  replied  the  man.  '  'Tis  mos'  extraordinary.  I 
never  knowed  his  lordship  took  ill  before.  I  suppose  that 
gentleman  brought  bad  news,  sir.' 

•Possibly,  John,  possibly.  Was  this  gentleman  a  short 
man  with  light  hair?     I  fancy  I  saw  him. 

'  Lor',  no,  Mr  Cargrim.  He  was  tall  and  lean  as  a  rake ; 
looked  like  a  military  gentleman,  sir ;  and  I  don't  know  as 
I'd  call  him  gentry  either,'  added  John,  half  to  himselC  '  He 
wasn't  wliat  he  thought  he  was.' 

•A  decayed  clergyman,  John?'  inquired  Cargrim,  re- 
membering Graham's  description. 

•There  was  lots  of  decay  but  no  clergy  about  him, 
sir.  I  fancy  I  knows  a  parson  when  I  sees  one.  Clergy- 
men don't  have  scars  on  their  cheekses  as  I  knows  of.' 

'Oh,  indeed!'  said  Cargrim,  mentally  noting  that  the 
doctor  had  spoken  falsely.     '  So  he  had  a  scar?  ' 

*  A  red  scar,  sir,  on  the  right  cheek,  from  his  temple  to 
the  corner  of  his  mouth.  He  was  as  dark  as  pitch  in  looks, 
with  a  military  moustache,  and  two  black  eyes  like  gimblets. 
His  clothes  was  shabby,  and  his  looks  was  horrid.  Bad- 
tempered  too,  sir,  I  should  say,  for  when  he  was  with  his 
lordship  I  'card  his  voice  quite  angry  like.  It  ain't  no 
clergy  as  'ud  speak  like  that  to  our  bishop,  Mr  Cargrim.* 

'  And  his  lordship  was  taken  ill  when  this  visitor  departed, 
John  ? ' 

'Right  off,  sir.  When  I  got  back  to  the  library  after 
showing  him  out  I  found  his  lordship  gas'ly  pale.' 

'  And  his  paleness  was  caused  by  the  noisy  conduct  of 
this  man?' 

'  Couldn't  have  bin  caused  by  anything  else,  sir.' 

'  Dear  me !  dear  me !  this  is  much  to  be  deplored.' 
sighed  Cargrim,  in  his  softest  manner.  '  And  a  clergyman 
too.' 

'  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  he  weren't  no  clergyman,'  cried 
John,  who  was  an  old  servant  and  took  liberties;  'he  was 
more  like  a  tramp  or  a  gipsy.  I  wouldn't  have  left  him 
near  the  plate,  I  know.' 

'  We  must  not  judge  too  harshly,  John.  Perhaps  this 
pour  man  was  in  trouble.' 


The  Curiosity  of  Mr  Cargrim 

'  He  didn't  look  like  it,  Mr  Cargrim.  He  went  in  and 
came  out  quite  cocky  like.  I  wonder  his  lordship  didn't 
send  for  the  police.' 

*  His  lordship  is  too  kind-hearted,  John.  This  stranger 
had  a  scar,  you  say  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir ;  a  red  scar  on  the  right  cheek.' 

'  Dear  me  !  no  doubt  he  has  been  in  the  wars.  Good- 
night, John.  Let  us  hope  that  his  lordship  will  be  better 
after  a  night's  rest' 

*  Good-night,  sir  1 ' 

The  chaplain  walked  away  with  a  satisfied  smile  on  his 
meek  face. 

*I  must  find  the  man  with  the  scar,'  he  thought,  'and 
then — who  knows.' 


n 


CHAPTERV 

THE     DERBY     WINNER 

As  its  name  denotes,  Beorminster  was  built  on  a  hill,  or, 

to  speak  more  precisely,  on  an  eminence  elevated  slightly 
above  tlic  surrounding  plain.  In  former  times  it  had  been 
surrounded  by  aguish  marshes  which  liad  rendered  the  town 
unhealthy,  but  now  that  modern  enterprise  had  drained  the 
fenlands,  Beorminster  was  as  salultrious  a  town  as  could  be 
found  in  England.  The  rich,  black  mud  of  the  former  bogs 
now  yielded  luxuriant  harvests,  and  in  autumn  the  city,  with 
its  mass  of  red-roofed  houses  climbing  upward  to  the 
cathedral,  was  islanded  in  a  golden  ocean  of  wheat  and 
rye  and  bearded  barley.  For  the  purposes  of  defence,  the 
town  had  been  built  originally  on  the  slopes  of  the  hill, 
under  the  very  shadow  of  the  minster,  and  round  its  base 
the  massive  old  walls  yet  remained,  which  had  squeezed 
tiie  city  into  a  huddled  mass  of  uncomfortable  dwellings 
within  its  narrow  girdle.  But  now  oppidan  life  extended 
beyond  these  walls  ;  and  houses,  streets,  villas  and  gardens 
spread  into  the  plain  on  all  sides.  Broad,  white  roads  ran 
to  Souihberry  Jur.ction,  ten  miles  away;  to  manufacturing 
Irongrip,  the  smoke  of  whose  furnaces  could  be  seen  on 
the  horizon;  and  to  many  a  tiny  hamlet  and  sleepy  town 
buried  amid  the  rich  meadowlands  and  golden  cornfields. 
And  high  above  all  lorded  the  stately  cathedral,  with  its  trio 
of  mighty  towers,  whence,  morning  and  evening,  melodious 
bells  pealed  through  the  peaceful  lands. 

Beyond  the  walls  the  modern  town  was  made  up  of  broad 
streets  and  handsome  shops.  On  its  outskirts  appeared 
comfortable  villas  and  stately  manors,  gardens  and  woody 
parks,  in  which  dwelt  the  aristocracy  of  Beorminster.  But 
the  old  town,  with  its  tall   houses  and  narrow  lanes,  wai 

34 


The  Derby  Winner 

given  over  to  the  plebeians,  save  in  the  Cathedral  Close, 
where  dwelt  the  canons,  the  dean,  the  archdeacon,  and  a 
few  old-fashioned  folk  who  remained  by  preference  in  their 
ancestral  dwellings.  From  this  close,  which  surrounded 
the  open  space,  wherein  the  cathedral  was  built,  narrow 
streets  trickled  down  to  the  walls,  and  here  was  the  Seven 
Dials,  the  Whitechapel,  the  very  worst  corner  of  Beor- 
minster.  The  Beorminster  police  declared  that  this  net- 
work of  lanes  and  alleys  and  malodorous  cul-de-sacs  was  as 
dangerous  a  neighbourhood  as  any  London  slum,  and  they 
were  particularly  emphatic  in  denouncing  the  public-house 
known  as  The  Derby  Winner,  and  kept  by  a  certain 
William  Mosk,  who  was  a  sporting  scoundrel  and  a  horsey 
scamp.  This  ill-famed  hostel  was  placed  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  in  what  had  once  been  the  main  street,  and  being  near 
the  Eastgate,  caught  in  its  web  most  of  the  thirsty  passers- 
by  who  entered  the  city  proper,  either  for  sight-seeing  or 
business.  It  affected  a  kind  of  spurious  respectability, 
which  was  all  on  the  outside,  for  within  it  was  as  iniquitous 
a  den  as  could  well  be  conceived,  and  was  usually  filled 
with  horse-copers  and  sporting  characters,  who  made  bets, 
and  talked  racing,  and  rode  or  drove  fiery  steeds,  and  who 
lived  on,  and  swindled  through,  the  noblest  of  all  animals. 
Mr  Mosk,  a  lean  light-weight,  who  wore  loud  check  suits, 
tight  in  the  legs  and  short  in  the  waist,  was  the  presiding 
deity  of  this  Inferno,  and  as  the  Ormuz  to  this  Ahriinanes, 
Gabriel  Pendle  was  the  curate  of  the  district,  charged  with 
the  almost  hopeless  task  of  reforming  his  sporting  parish- 
ioners. And  all  this,  with  considerable  irony,  was  placed 
almost  in  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral  towers. 

Not  a  neighbourhood  for  Mr  Cargrim  to  venture  into, 
since  many  sights  therein  must  have  displeased  his  exact 
tastes ;  yet  two  days  after  the  reception  at  the  palace  the 
chaplain  might  have  been  seen  daintily  picking  his  way  over 
the  cobble-stone  pavements.  As  he  walked  he  thought, 
and  liis  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  circi'rnstances  which 
had  led  him  to  venture  his  saintly  person  so  near  the 
spider's  web  of  The  Derby  Winner.  The  bishop,  London, 
curiosity,  Gabriel,  this  unpleasant  neighbourhood — so  ran  the 
links  of  his  chain  of  thought. 

The  day  following  his  unexpected  illness  brought  no  relief 

35 


The  Bishop  s  Secret 

to  the  bishop,  at  all  events  to  outward  seeming,  for  he  was 
paler  and  more  haggard  than  ever  in  looks,  and  as  dour  as 
a  bear  in  manner.  With  Mrs  Pendle  he  strove  to  be  his 
usual  cheerful  self,  but  with  small  success,  as  occasionally 
he  would  steal  an  anxious  look  at  her,  and  heave  deep  sighs 
expressive  of  much  inward  trouble.  All  this  was  noted  by 
Cargrim,  who  carefully  strove,  by  sympathetic  looks  and 
dexterous  remarks,  to  bring  his  superior  to  the  much-desired 
point  of  unburdening  his  mind.  Gabriel  had  returned  to 
his  lodgings  near  the  Eastgate,  and  to  his  hopeless  task  of 
civilising  his  degraded  centaurs.  Lucy,  after  the  manner 
of  maids  in  love,  was  building  air-castles  with  Sir  Harry's 
assistance,  and  Mrs  Pendle  kept  her  usual  watch  on  her 
weak  heart  and  fluctuating  pulse.  The  bishop  thus  escaped 
their  particular  notice,  and  it  was  mainly  Cargrim  who  saw 
how  distraught  and  anxious  he  was.  As  for  Dr  Graham, 
he  had  departed  after  a  second  unsatisfactory  visit,  swearing 
that  he  could  do  nothing  with  a  man  who  refused  to  make 
a  confidant  of  his  doctor.  Bishop  Pendle  was  therefore 
wholly  at  the  mercy  of  his  suspicious  chaplain,  to  be  spied 
upon,  to  be  questioned,  to  be  watched,  and  to  be  made  a 
prey  of  in  his  first  weak  moment.  But  the  worried  man, 
filled  with  some  unknown  anxiety,  was  quite  oblivious  to 
Cargrim's  manoeuvres. 

For  some  time  the  chaplain,  in  spite  of  all  his  watchful- 
ness, failed  to  come  upon  anything  tangible  likely  to  explain 
what  was  in  the  bishop's  mind.  He  walked  about  rest- 
lessly, he  brooded  continuously,  and  instead  of  devoting 
himself  to  his  work  in  his  usual  regular  way,  occupied 
himself  for  long  hours  in  scribbling  figures  on  his  blotting- 
paper,  and  muttering  at  times  in  anxious  tones.  Cargrim 
examined  the  blotting-paper,  and  strained  his  ears  to  gather 
the  sense  of  the  mutterings,  but  in  neither  case  could  he 
gain  any  clue  to  the  bishop's  actual  trouble.  At  length — 
it  was  on  the  morning  of  the  second  day  after  the  reception 
— Dr  Pendle  abruptly  announced  that  he  was  going  up  to 
London  that  very  afternoon,  and  would  go  alone.  The 
emphasis  he  laid  on  this  last  statement  still  further  roused 
Cargrim's  curiosity. 

'  Shall  I  not  accompany  your  lordship  ? '  he  asked,  as  the 
bishop  restlessly  paced  the  library. 

36 


The  Derby  Winner 

*  No,  Mr  Cargrim,  why  should  you  ? '  said  the  bishop, 
abruptly  and  testily. 

'  Your  lordship  seems  ill,  and  I  thought — ' 

•  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  think,  sir.  I  am  not  well, 
and  my  visit  to  London  is  in  connection  with  my  health.' 

•  Or  with  your  secret ! '  thought  the  chaplain,  deferentially 
bowing. 

•  I  have  every  confidence  in  Dr  Graham,*  continued 
Pendle,  '  but  it  is  my  intention  to  consult  a  specialist  I  need 
not  go  into  details,  Mr  Cargrim,  as  they  will  not  interest  you.' 

•Oh,  your  lordship,  your  health  is  my  constant  thought.' 
'Your  anxiety  is  commendable,  but  needless,'  responded 

the  bishop,  dryly.     *  I  am  due  at  Southberry  this  Sunday,  I 

believe.' 

'There  is  a  confirmation  at  St  Mark's,  your  lordship.' 

*  Very  good ;  you  can  make  the  necessary  arrangements, 
Mr  Cargrim.  To-day  is  Thursday.  I  shall  return  to- 
morrow night,  and  shall  rest  on  Saturday  until  the  evening, 
when  I  shall  ride  over  to  Southberry,  attend  at  St  Mark's, 
and  return  on  Sunday  night' 

'  Does  not  your  lordship  desire  my  attendance  ? '  asked 
Cargrim,  although  he  knew  that  he  was  the  morning 
preacher  in  the  cathedral  on  Sunday. 

*  No,'  answered  Dr  Pendle,  curtly,  '  I  shall  go  and  return 
alone.' 

The  bishop  looked  at  Cargrim,  and  Cargrim  looked  at 
the  bishop,  each  striving  to  read  the  other's  thoughts,  then 
the  latter  turned  away  with  a  frown,  and  the  former,  much 
exercised  in  his  mind,  advanced  towards  the  door  of  the 
library.     Dr  Pendle  called  him  back. 

'  Not  a  word  about  my  health  to  Mrs  Pendle,'  he  said 
sharply. 

'Certainly  not,  your  lordship;  you  can  rely  upon  my 
discretion  in  every  way,'  replied  the  chaplain,  with  emphasis, 
and  glided  away  as  soft-footed  as  any  panther,  and  as 
dangerous. 

'  I  wovider  what  the  fellow  suspects,'  thought  the  bishop 
when  alone.  '  I  can  see  that  he  is  filled  with  curiosity, 
but  he  can  never  find  out  the  truth,  or  even  guess  at  it.  I 
am  safe  enough  from  him.  All  the  same,  I'll  have  a  fool 
for  my  next  chaplain.     Fools  are  easier  to  deal  with.' 

37 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

Cargrim  would  have  given  much  to  have  overheard  this 
speech,  but  as  the  door  and  severMl  passages  were  between 
him  and  the  talker,  he  was  ignorant  of  the  incriminating 
remarks  the  bishop  had  let  slip.  Still  baffled,  but  still 
curious,  he  busied  himself  with  attending  to  some  business 
of  the  See  whicli  did  not  require  the  personal  supervision 
of  Dr  Pendle,  and  when  that  prelate  took  his  departure 
for  London  by  the  three  o'clock  train,  Cargrim  attended 
him  to  the  station,  full  of  meekness  and  irritating  attentions. 
It  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  tliat  the  bishop  saw  his 
officious  chaplain  left  behind  on  the  platform.  He  had  a 
secret,  and  with  the  unensiness  of  a  loaded  conscience, 
fancied  that  everyone  saw  that  he  had  something  to 
conceal — particularly  Cargrim.  In  the  presence  of  that 
good  young  man,  this  spiritual  lord,  high-placed  and 
powerfjl,  felt  that  he  resembled  an  insect  under  a  micro- 
scope, and  that  Cargrim  had  his  eye  to  the  instrument 
Conscience  made  a  coward  of  the  bishop,  but  in  the  case 
of  his  chaplain  his  uneasy  feelings  were  in  some  degree 
justified. 

On  leavitg  the  railway  station,  which  was  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  modern  town,  Cargrim  took  his  way  through  the 
brisk  population  which  thronged  the  streets,  and  wondered 
in  what  manner  he  could  benefit  by  the  absence  of  his 
superior.  As  he  could  not  learn  the  truth  from  Dr  Pendle 
himself,  he  thought  that  he  might  discover  it  from  an 
investigation  of  the  bishop's  desk.  For  this  purpose  he 
returned  to  the  palace  forthwith,  and  on  the  plea  of 
business,  shut  himself  up  in  the  library.  Dr  Pendle  was 
a  careless  man,  and  never  locked  up  any  drawers,  even 
those  which  contained  his  private  papers.  Cargrim,  who 
was  too  much  of  a  sneak  to  feel  honourable  scruples,  went 
through  these  carefully,  but  in  spite  of  all  his  predis[)ositi"n 
to  malignity  was  unable  to  find  any  grounds  for  suspecting 
Dr  Pendle  to  be  in  any  serious  trouble.  At  the  end  of  an 
hour  he  found  himself  as  ignorant  as  ever,  and  made  only 
one  discovery  of  any  note,  which  was  that  the  bishop  had 
taken  his  cheque-book  with  him  to  London. 

To  many  people  this  would  have  seemed  a  natural 
circumstance,  as  most  men  with  banking  accounts  take 
their  cheque-books  with  them  when  going  on  a  journey. 

38 


The  Derby  Winner 

But  Cargrim  knew  that  the  bishop  usually  preferred  to 
fill  his  pockets  with  loose  cash  when  absent  for  a  short 
time,  and  this  deviation  from  his  ordinary  habits  appeared 
to  be  suspicious. 

'Hum!'  thought  the  chaplain,  rubbing  his  chin,  'I 
wonder  if  that  so-called  clergyman  wanted  money.  If  he 
had  wished  for  a  small  sum,  the  bishop  could  easily  have 
given  it  to  him  out  of  the  cash-box.  Going  by  this  reason- 
ing, he  must  have  wanted  a  lot  of  money,  which  argues 
blackmail.  Hum  !  Has  he  taken  both  cheque-books,  or 
only  one  ? ' 

The  reason  of  this  last  query  was  that  Bishop  Pendle 
had  accounts  in  two  different  banks.  One  in  Beorminster, 
as  became  the  bishop  of  the  See,  the  other  in  London,  in 
accordance  with  the  dignity  of  a  spiritual  lord  of  Parlia- 
ment. A  further  search  showed  Mr  Cargrim  that  the 
Beorminster  cheque-book  had  been  left  behind. 

'  Hum ! '  said  the  chaplain  again,  '  that  man  must  have 
gone  back  to  London.  Dr  Pendle  is  going  to  meet  him 
there  and  draw  money  from  his  Town  bank  to  pay  what 
he  demands.  I'll  have  a  look  at  the  butts  of  that  cheque- 
book when  it  comes  back  ;  the  amount  of  the  cheque  may 
prove  much.  I  may  even  find  out  the  name  of  this 
stranger.' 

But  all  this,  as  Cargrim  very  well  knew,  was  pure  theory. 
The  bishop  might  have  taken  his  cheque-book  to  London 
for  other  reasons  than  paying  blackmail  to  the  stranger, 
for  it  was  not  even  certain  that  there  was  any  such  extortion 
in  the  question.  Dr  Pendle  was  worried,  it  was  true,  and 
after  the  departure  of  his  strange  visitor  he  had  been  taken 
ill,  but  these  facts  proved  nothing ;  and  after  twisting  and 
turning  them  in  every  way,  and  connecting  and  disconnect- 
ing them  with  the  absence  of  the  London  cheque-book, 
Mr  Cargrim  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  beaten 
for  the  time  being.  Then  he  fancied  he  might  extract 
some  information  from  Gabriel  relative  to  his  father's  depart- 
ure for  London,  for  Mr  Cargrim  was  too  astute  to  believe 
in  the  'consulting  a  specialist'  excuse.  Still,  this  might 
serve  as  a  peg  whereon  to  hang  his  inquiries  and  develop 
further  information,  so  the  chaplain,  after  meditating  over 
his  five-o'clock  cup  of  tea,  took  his  way  to  the  Eastgate,  in 

39 


The  Bishop's  Secttt 

order  to  put  Gabriel  unawares  into  the  witness-box.  Yet, 
for  all  these  doings  and  suspicions  Cargrim  had  no  very 
good  reason,  save  his  own  desire  to  get  Dr  Pondle  under 
his  thumb.  He  was  groping  in  the  dark,  he  had  not  a 
shred  of  evidence  to  suppose  that  the  uneasiness  of  the 
bishop  was  connected  with  anything  criminal ;  nevertheless, 
the  chaplain  put  himself  so  far  out  of  his  usual  habits  as  to 
venture  into  the  unsavoury  neighbourhood  wherein  stood 
The  Derby  Winner.  Truly  this  man's  cobweb  spinning 
was  of  a  very  dangerous  character  when  he  took  so  much 
trouble  to  weave  the  web. 

As  in  Excelsior,  the  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
when  Cargrim  found  himself  at  the  door  of  the  curate's 
lodging.  Here  he  met  with  a  check,  for  Gabriel's  landlady 
informed  him  that  Mr  Pendle  was  not  at  home,  and  she 
did  not  know  where  he  was  or  when  he  would  be  back. 
Cargrim  made  the  sweetest  excuses  for  troubling  the  good 
lady,  left  a  message  that  he  would  call  again,  and  returned 
along  Monk  Street  on  his  way  back  to  the  palace  through 
the  new  town.  By  going  in  this  direction  he  passed 
The  Derby  Winner — not  without  intention — for  it  was 
this  young  man's  belief  that  Gabriel  might  be  haunting  the 
public-house  to  see  Mrs  Mosk  or — as  was  more  probable 
to  the  malignant  chaplain — her  handsome  daughter. 

As  he  came  abreast  of  The  Derby  Winner  it  was  not 
too  dark  but  that  he  could  see  a  tall  man  standing  in  the 
doorway.  Cargrim  at  first  fancied  that  this  might  be 
Gabriel,  and  paced  slowly  along  so  as  to  seize  an 
opportunity  of  addressing  him.  But  when  he  came 
almost  within  touching  distance,  he  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  a  dark-looking  gipsy,  fierj'-eyed  and  dangerous  in 
appearance.  He  had  a  lean,  cruel  face,  a  hawk's  beak  for 
a  nose,  and  black,  black  hair  streaked  with  grey ;  but  what 
mostly  attracted  Cargrim's  attention  was  a  red  streak  which 
traversed  the  right  cheek  of  the  man  from  ear  to  mouth. 
At  once  he  recalled  John's  description — '  A  military-looking 
gentleman  with  a  scar  on  the  right  cheek.'  He  thought, 
•  Hum  1  this,  then,  is  the  bishop's  visitor.' 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   MAN    WITH   THE   SCAR 

This  engaging  individual  looked  at  Cargrim  with  a  fierce 
air.  He  was  not  sober,  and  had  just  reached  the  quarrel- 
some stage  of  intoxication,  which  means  objection  to  every- 
one and  everything.  Consequently  he  cociced  his  hat 
defiantly  at  the  curate;  and  although  he  blocked  up  the 
doorway,  made  no  motion  to  stand  aside.  Cargrim  was 
not  ill  pleased  at  this  obstinacy,  as  it  gave  him  an  opportunity 
of  entering  into  conversation  with  the  so-called  decayed 
clergyman,  who  was  as  unlike  a  parson  as  a  rabbit  is  like 
a  terrier. 

'  Do  you  know  if  Mr  Pendle  is  within,  my  friend  ? ' 
asked  the  chaplain,  with  bland  politeness. 

The  stranger  started  at  the  mention  of  the  name.  His 
face  grew  paler,  his  scar  waxed  redder,  and  with  all  his 
Dutch  courage  there  was  a  look  of  alarm  visible  in  his  cold 
eyes. 

*  I  don't  know,'  said  he,  insolently,  yet  with  a  certain  re- 
finement of  speech.  '  I  shouldn't  think  it  likely  that  a  pot- 
house like  this  would  be  patronised  by  a  bishop.' 

*  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  speak  of  Mr  Gabriel  Pendle,  the  son 
of  his  lordship.' 

'  Then  pardon  me,  sir,'  mimicked  the  man,  '  if  I  say  that 
I  know  nothing  of  the  son  of  his  lordship;  and  what's 
more,  I'm  d d  if  I  want  to.' 

'  I  see !  You  are  more  fortunate  in  knowing  his  lordship 
himself,'  said  the  chaplain,  with  great  simpHcity. 

The  stranger  plucked  at  his  worn  sleeve  with  a  look  of 
irony.  'Do  I  look  as  though  I  were  acquainted  with 
bishops?'  said  he,  scoffingly.  'Is  this  the  kind  of  coat 
likely  to  be  admitted  into  episcopalian  palaces?' 

4  41 


The  Bishop s  Secret 

•Vet  it  was  admitted,  sir.  If  I  am  not  mistaken  you 
called  at  the  palace  two  nights  ago.' 

'  Did  you  ste  mc?' 

'Certainly  I  saw  you,'  replied  Cargrim,  salving  his  con- 
science with  the  Jesuitic  saying  that  the  end  justifies  the 
means.  'And  I  was  informed  that  you  were  a  decayed 
clergyman  seeking  assistance.' 

'I  have  been  most  things  in  my  time,'  observed  the 
stranger,  gloomily,  '  but  not  a  pardon.  You  are  one,  I 
perceive.' 

Cargrim  bowed.     '  I  am  the  chaplain  of  Bishop  Pendle.' 

*  And  the  busybody  of  Beorminster,  I  should  say,  'rejoined 
the  man  with  a  sneer.  'See  here,  my  friend,' and  he  rapped 
Cargrim  on  the  breast  with  a  sha|)cly  hand,  '  if  you  in- 
terfere in  what  does  not  concern  you,  there  will  be  trouble. 
I  saw  Dr  Hendie  on  private  business,  and  as  such  it  has 
nothing  to  do  with  you.  Hold  your  tongue,  you  black 
crow,  and  keep  away  from  me,'  cried  the  stranger,  with 
sudden  ferocity,  'or  I'll  knock  your  head  off.  Now  you 
know,'  and  with  a  fierce  glance  the  man  moved  out  of  the 
doorway  and  sauntered  round  the  corner  before  Cargrim 
could  make  up  his  mind  how  to  resent  this  insolence. 

'  Hum  I '  said  he  to  himself,  with  a  glance  at  the  tall 
retiring  figure,  '  that  is  a  nice  friend  for  a  bishop  to  have. 
He's  a  jail-bird  if  I  mistake  not;  and  he  is  afraid  of  my 
finding  out  his  business  with  Pendle.  Birds  of  a  feather,' 
sighed  Mr  Cargrim,  entering  the  hotel.  '  I  fear,  I  sadly 
fear  that  his  lordship  is  but  a  whited  sepulchre.  A  look 
into  the  bishop's  past  might  show  me  many  things  of 
moment,'  and  the  fat  living  of  Heathcroft  seemed  almost 
within  Cargrim's  grasp  as  he  came  to  this  conclusion. 

'Now  then,  sir,'  interrupted  a  sharp  but  pleasant  female 
voice,  '  and  what  may  you  want  ? ' 

Mr  Cargrim  wheeled  round  to  answer  this  question,  and 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  bar,  glittering  with  bras.s 
and  crystal  and  bright-hued  liquors  in  fat  glass  barrels ; 
also  with  an  extremely  handsome  young  woman,  dressed 
in  an  astonishing  variety  of  colours.  She  was  high-coloured 
and  frank-' yed,  with  a  great  quantity  of  very  black  hair 
twisted  into  many  amazing  shapes  on  the  top  of  her  head. 
In  manner  she  was  as  brisk  as  a  bee  and  as  restless  as  a 

43 


The  illan  with  the  Scar 

butterfly ;  and  being  adorned  with  a  vast  quantity  of 
bracelets,  and  lockets,  and  brooches,  all  of  gaudy  patterns, 
jingled  at  every  movement.  This  young  lady  was  Miss  Bell 
Mosk,  whom  the  frequenters  of  The  Derby  Winner  called 
'a  dashing  beauty,'  and  Mrs  Pansey  'a  painted  jade.* 
With  her  glittering  ornaments,  her  bright  blue  dress,  her 
high  colour,  and  general  air  of  vivacity,  she  glowed  and 
twinkled  in  the  lamp-light  Hke  some  gorgeous-plumaged 
parrot;  and  her  free  speech  and  constant  chatter  might 
have  been  ascribed  to  the  same  bird. 

'  Miss  Mosk,  I  believe,'  said  the  polite  Cargrim,  marvel- 
ling that  this  gaudy  female  should  be  the  refined  Gabriel's 
notion  of  feminine  perfection. 

'  I  am  Miss  Mosk,'  replied  Bell,  taking  a  comprehensive 
view  of  the  sleek,  black-clothed  parson.  'What  can  I  do 
for  you  ? ' 

*I  am  Mr  Cargrim.  the  bishop's  chaplain,  Miss  Mosk, 
and  I  wish  to  see  Mr  Pendle — Mr  Gabriel  Pendle.' 

Bell  flushed  as  red  as  the  reddest  cabbage  rose,  and  with 
downcast  eyes  wiped  the  counter  briskly  with  a  duster. 
'  Wliy  should  you  come  here  to  ask  for  Mr  Pendle  ? '  said 
she,  in  guarded  tones. 

'  I  called  at  his  lodgings,  Miss  Mosk,  and  I  was  informed 
that  he  was  visiting  a  sick  person  here.' 

'  My  mother  ! '  replied  Bell,  not  knowing  what  an  amazing 
lie  the  chaplain  was  telling.  '  Yes !  Mr  Pendle  comes 
often  to  see — my  mother.' 

'Is  he  here  now?'  asked  Cargrim,  noticing  the  hesitancy 
at  the  end  of  her  sentence;  'because  I  wish  to  speak  wiih 
him  on  business.' 

'  He  is  upstairs.     I  daresay  he'll  be  down  soon.' 

'  Oh,  don't  disturb  him  for  my  sake,  I  beg.  But  if  you 
will  permit  me  I  shall  go  up  and  see  Mrs  Mosk.' 

'  Here  comes  Mr  Pendle  now,'  said  Bell,  abruptly,  and 
withdrew  into  the  interior  of  the  bar  as  Gabriel  appeared 
at  the  end  of  the  passage.  He  started  and  seemed  uneasy 
when  he  recognised  the  chaplain. 

'Cargrim!'  he  cried,  hurrying  forward.  'Why  are  you 
here?'  and  he  gave  a  nervous  glance  in  the  direction  of 
the  bar;  a  glance  which  the  chaplain  saw  and  understood, 
Dut  discreetly  left  unnoticed. 

43 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'I  wish  to  see  you,'  he  replied,  with  great  simplicity; 
•they  told  me  at  your  lodgings  that  you  might  be  here, 
so—' 

'Why!'  interrupted  Gabriel,  sharply,  'I  left  no  message 
to  that  efTect.' 

Cargrim  saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  'I  speak 
generally,  my  dear  friend — generally,'  he  said  in  some 
haste.  '  Your  worthy  landlady  mentioned  several  houses  in 
which  you  were  in  the  habit  of  seeing  sick  people — amongst 
others  this  hotel.' 

'Mrs  Mosk  is  very  ilL  I  have  been  seeing  her,'  said 
Gabriel,  shortly. 

'  Ay  !  ay  !  you  have  been  seeing  Mrs  Mosk  ! ' 

Gabriel  changed  colour  and  cast  another  glance  towards 
the  bar,  for  the  significance  of  Cargrim's  speech  was  not 
lost  on  him.  '  Do  you  wish  to  speak  with  me  ? '  he  asked 
coldly. 

'  I  should  esteem  it  a  favour  if  you  would  allow  me  a 
few  words,'  said  Cargrim,  politely.  '  I'll  wait  for  you — out- 
side,' and  in  his  turn  the  chaplain  looked  towards  the  bar. 

'Thank  you,  I  can  come  with  you  now,'  was  Gabriel's 
reply,  made  with  a  burning  desire  to  knock  Cargrim  down. 
•  Miss  Mosk,  I  am  glad  to  find  that  your  mother  is  easier 
in  her  mind.' 

'  It's  all  due  to  you,  Mr  Pendle,'  said  Bell,  moving 
forward  with  a  toss  of  her  head  directed  especially  at  Mr 
Cargrim.     'Your  visits  do  mother  a  great  deal  of  good.' 

'  I  am  sure  they  do,'  said  the  chaplain,  not  able  to 
forego  giving  the  girl  a  scratch  of  his  claws.  '  Mr  Pendle's 
visits  here  must  be  delightful  to  everybody.* 

•  I  daresay,'  retorted  Bell,  with  heightened  colour,  *  other 
people's  visits  would  not  be  so  welcome.' 

'  Perhaps  not.  Miss  Mosk.  Mr  Pendle  has  many  amiable 
qualities  to  recommend  him.  He  is  a  general  and  deserved 
favourite.' 

'Come,  come,  Cargrim,'  interposed  Gabriel,  anxiously, 
for  the  fair  Bell's  temper  was  rapidly  getting  the  better  of 
her ;  '  if  you  are  ready  we  shall  go.  Good  evening, 
Miss  Mosk.' 

'Good  evening,  Mr  Pendle,'  said  the  barmaid,  and 
directed  a  spiteful  look  at  Cargrim,   for  she  saw  plainly 

44 


The  Man  with  the  Scar 

that  he  had  intentionally  deprived  her  of  a  confidential 
conversation  with  Gabriel.  The  chaplain  received  the 
look — which  he  quite  understood — with  an  amused  smile 
and  a  bland  inclination  of  the  head.  As  he  walked  out 
arm-in-arm  with  the  reluctant  Pendle,  Bell  banged  the 
pewters  and  glasses  about  with  considerable  energy,  for  the 
significant  demeanour  of  Cargrim  annoyed  her  so  much 
that  she  felt  a  great  inclination  to  throw  something  at  his 
head.  But  then,  Miss  Mosk  was  a  high-spirited  girl  and 
believed  in  actions  rather  than  speech,  even  though  she 
possessed  a  fair  command  of  the  latter. 

•  Well,  Cargrim,'  said  Gabriel,  when  he  found  himself  in 
the  street  with  his  uncongenial  companion,  '  what  is  it  ? ' 

•  It's  about  the  bishop.' 

•  My  father !  Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  him  ?  * 
•I  fear  so.  He  told  me  that  he  was  going  to  London.' 
'What  of  that? '  said  Gabriel,  impatiently.     *  He  told  me 

the  same  thing  yesterday.     Has  he  gone  ? ' 

'He  left  by  the  afternoon  train.  Do  you  know  the 
object  of  his  visit  to  London?* 

•  No.     What  is  his  object  ? ' 

•  He  goes  to  consult  a  specialist  about  his  health.' 

•  What ! '  cried  Gabriel,  anxiously.     '  Is  he  ill  ? ' 

•  I  think  so ;  some  nervous  trouble  brought  on  by  worry.' 

•  By  worry !  Has  my  father  anything  on  his  mind  likely 
to  worry  him  to  that  extent  ? ' 

Cargrim  coughed  significantly.  'I  think  so,*  said  he 
again.  *He  has  not  been  himself  since  the  visit  of  that 
stranger  to  the  palace.  I  fancy  the  man  must  have 
brought  bad  news.* 

'Did  the  bishop  tell  you  so?' 

•  No  ;  but  I  am  observant,  you  know.' 

Privately,  Gabriel  considered  that  Cargrim  was  a  great 
deal  too  observant,  and  also  of  a  meddlesome  nature,  else 
why  had  he  come  to  spy  out  matters  which  did  not  concern 
him.  Needless  to  say,  Gabriel  was  thinking  of  Bell  at  this 
moment.  However,  he  made  no  comment  on  the  chap- 
lain's speech,  but  merely  remarked  that  doubtless  the 
bishop  had  his  own  reasons  for  keeping  silent,  and 
advised  Cargrim  to  wait  until  he  was  consulted  in  connec- 
tion with  the  matter,  before  troubling  himself  unnecessarily 

45 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

about  it.    '  My  father  knows  his  own  business  best,'  finished 
Gabne!,  stiffly,  '  if  you  will  forgive  my  speaking  so  plainly.' 

'  Certainly,  certainly,  Pendle ;  but  I  owe  a  great  deal  to 
your  father,  and  I  would  do  much  to  save  him  from  annoy- 
ance. By  the  way,'  with  an  abrupt  chanu'e  of  subject,  'do 
you  know  that  I  saw  the  straneer  who  called  at  the  palace 
two  nights  ago  during  the  reception?' 

'  When  ?     Where  ?  ' 

'At  that  hotel,  this  evening.  He  looks  a  dangerous 
man.' 

Gabriel  shrugged  his  shoulders.  '  It  seems  to  me, 
Cargrim,  that  you  are  making  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole 
hill.  A  stranger  sees  my  father,  and  afterwards  you  meet 
him  at  a  public-house  ;  there  is  nothing  strange  in  that.' 

'You  forget,' hinted  Cargrim,  sweetly,  'this  man  caused 
your  father's  illness.' 

"  We  can't  be  sure  of  that ;  and  in  any  case,  my  father  is 
quite  clever  enough  to  deal  wit'n  ins  own  affairs.  I  see  no 
reason  why  you  should  have  hunted  me  out  to  talk  such 
nonsense.  Good-night,  Cargrim,'  and  with  a  curt  nod  the 
curate  stalked  away,  considerably  annoyed  by  the  meddle- 
some spirit  manifested  by  the  cha|)lain.  He  had  never 
liked  the  man,  and,  now  that  he  was  m  this  interfering 
mood,  liked  him  less  than  ever.  It  would  be  as  well, 
thought  Gabriel,  that  Mr  Cargrim  should  be  dismissed 
from  his  confidential  office  as  s^on  as  possible.  Otherwise 
he  might  cause  trouble,  and  Gabriel  mentally  thought  of 
the  high-coloured  young  lady  in  the  bar.  His  conscience 
was  not  at  ease  regarding  his  admiration  for  her;  and  he 
dreaded  lest  the  ofticious  Cargrim  should  talk  about  her  to 
the  bishop.  Altogether  the  ch:^plain,  like  a  hornet,  had 
annoyed  both  Dr  Pendle  and  his  son  ;  and  the  bishop  in 
London  and  Gabriel  in  Beormin?ter  were  anything  but 
well  disposed  towards  this  clerical  busybody,  who  minded 
everyone  s  business  instead  of  his  own.  It  is  such  people 
who  stir  up  muddy  water  and  cause  mischief. 

Meanwhile,  the  busybody  looked  after  the  curate  with  an 
evil  smile  ;  and,  gratified  at  having  aroused  such  irritation 
as  the  abrupt  parting  signified,  turned  back  to  '1  he  Derby 
Winner.  He  had  seen  Bell,  he  had  spoken  to  Gabriel,  he 
had  even  secured  an  unsatisfactory  conversation  with  the 

46 


The  Man  with  the  Scar 

unknown  man.  Now  he  wished  to  question  Mrs  Mosk  and 
acquaint  himself  with  her  nature  and  attitude.  Also  he 
desired  to  question  her  concerning  the  mihtary  straiu^er ; 
and  with  this  resolve  presented  himself  again  before  Miss 
Mosk,  smiling  and  undaunted. 

*  What  is  it  ? '  asked  the  young  lady,  who  had  been  nurs- 
ing her  grievances. 

'A  mere  trifle,  Miss  Mosk ;  I  wish  to  see  your  mother.' 

'Why?'  was  Bell's  blunt  demand. 

'My  reasons  are  for  Mrs  Mosk's  ears  alone.' 

'  Oh,  are  they  ?  Well,  I'm  afraid  you  can't  see  my  mother. 
In  the  first  place,  she's  too  ill  to  receive  anyone ;  and  in  the 
second,  my  father  does  not  like  clergymen.* 

'  Dear  !  dear  !  not  even  Mr  Pendle  ? ' 

•Mr  Pendle  is  an  exception,'  retorted  Bell,  blushing,  and 
again  fell  to  wiping  the  counter  in  a  fury,  so  as  to  keep  her 
hands  from  Mr  Cargrim's  ears. 

*  I  wish  to  see  Mrs  Mosk  particularly,'  reiterated  Cargrim, 
who  was  bent  upon  carrying  his  point.  '  If  not,  your  father 
will  do.' 

'  My  father  is  absent  in  Southberry.  Why  do  you  want 
to  see  my  mother?' 

'I'll  tell  her  that  myself — with  your  permission,'  said 
Cargrim,  suavely. 

'  You  sha'n't,  then,'  cried  Bell,  and  flung  down  her  duster 
with  sparkling  eyes. 

'In  that  case  I  must  go  away,'  rei.lied  Cargrim,  seeing  he 
was  beaten,  'and  I  thank  you,  Miss  Mosk,  for  your  polite- 
ness. By  the  way,'  he  add';d,  as  he  half  returned,  'will  you 
tell  that  gentleman  with  the  scar  on  the  cheek  that  I  wish 
to  see  liim  also?' 

'  Seems  to  me  you  wish  to  see  everybody  about  here,'  said 
Bell,  scornfully.  *  I'll  tell  Mr  Jentham  if  you  like.  Now  go 
away ;  I'm  busy.' 

'  Jentham  ! '  repeated  Cargrim,  as  he  walked  homeward. 
'  Now,  I  wonder  iJf  I'll  find  that  Dame  in  the  bishop's  cheque- 
book.' 


CHAPTER    VII 

AN    INTERESTING   CONVERSATION 

When  Mr  Cargrim  took  an  idea  into  his  head  it  was  not 
easy  to  get  it  out  again,  and  to  this  resolute  obstinacy  he 
owed  no  small  part  of  his  success.  He  was  like  the  famous 
drop  of  water  and  would  wear  away  any  human  stone,  how- 
ever hard  it  might  be.  Again  and  again,  when  baffled,  he 
returned  with  gentle  persistence  to  the  object  he  had  in 
view,  and  however  strong  of  will  his  adversary  happened  to 
be,  that  will  was  bound,  in  the  long  run,  to  yield  to  the  in- 
cessant attacks  of  the  chaplain.  At  the  present  moment 
he  desired  to  have  an  interview  with  Mrs  Mosk,  and  he 
was  determined  to  obtain  one  in  spite  of  Bell's  refusal. 
However,  he  had  no  time  to  waste  on  the  persuasive  method, 
as  he  wished  to  see  the  invalid  before  the  bishop  returned. 
To  achieve  this  end  he  enlisted  the  services  of  Mrs  I'ansey. 
That  good  lady  sometimes  indulged  in  a  species  of  per- 
secution she  termed  district-visiting,  which  usually  consisted 
in  her  thru^^lin;.?  herself  at  untoward  times  into  poor  pecjple's 
houses  and  asking  them  questions  about  their  private  affairs. 
When  she  had  learned  all  she  wished  to  know,  and  had 
given  her  advice  in  the  tone  of  a  command  not  to  be  dis- 
obeyed, she  would  retire,  leaving  the  evideice  of  her  trail 
behind  her  in  the  shape  of  a  nauseous  little  tract  with  an 
abusive  title.  It  was  no  use  any  poor  creature  refusing  to 
see  Mrs  Pansey,  for  she  forced  herself  into  the  most  private 
chambers,  and  never  would  retire  unless  she  thought  fit  to 
do  so  of  her  own  will.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  Cargrim 
suggested  the  good  lady  should  call  upon  Mrs  Mosk, 
for  he  knew  well  that  neither  the  father,  nor  the  daughter, 
nor  the  whole  assembled  domestics  of  the  hotel,  would  be 
able  to  stop  her  from  making  her  way  to  the  bedside  of  the 


An  Interesting  Conversation 

invalid ;  and  in  the  devastated  rear  of  Mrs  Pansey  the  chap- 
lain intended  to  follow. 

His  principal  object  in  seeing  Mrs  Mosk  was  to  discover 
what  she  knew  about  the  man  called  Jentham.  He  was 
lodging  at  The  Derby  Winner,  as  Cargrim  ascertained  by 
later  inquiry,  and  it  was  probable  that  the  inmates  of  the 
hotel  knew  something  as  to  the  reasons  of  his  stay  in  Beor- 
niinster.  Mr  Mosk,  being  as  obstinate  as  a  mule,  was  not 
likely  to  tell  Cargrim  anything  he  desired  to  learn.  Bell, 
detesting  the  chaplain,  as  she  took  no  pains  to  conceal, 
would  probably  refuse  to  hold  a  conversation  with  him ; 
but  Mrs  Mosk,  being  wetk-minded  and  ill,  might  be  led 
by  dexterous  questioning  to  tell  all  she  knew.  And  what 
she  did  know  might,  in  Cargrim's  opinion,  throw  more  light 
on  Jentham's  connection  with  the  bishop.  Therefore,  the 
next  morning,  Cargrim  called  on  the  archdeacon's  widow  to 
inveigle  her  into  persecuting  Mrs  Mosk  with  a  call.  Mrs 
Pansey,  with  all  her  acuteness,  could  not  see  that  she  was 
being  made  use  of — luckily  for  Cargrim. 

'  I  hear  the  poor  woman  is  very  ill,'  sighed  the  chaplain, 
after  he  had  introduced  the  subject,  'and  I  fear  that  her 
daughter  does  not  give  her  all  the  attention  an  invalid 
should  have.' 

•The  Jezebel!'  growled  Mrs  Pansey.  'What  can  you 
expect  from  that  flaunting  hussy?' 

*  She  is  a  human  being,  Mrs  Pansey,  and  I  expect  at  least 
human  feelings  ' 

'  Can  you  get  blood  out  of  a  stone,  Mr  Cargrim  ?  No, 
you  can't.  Is  that  red-cheeked  Dutch  doll  a  pelican  to 
pluck  her  breast  for  the  benefit  of  her  mother?  No, 
indeed !  I  daresay  she  passes  her  sinful  hours  drinking 
with  young  men.  I'd  whip  her  at  a  cart's  tail  if  I  had  my 
way.' 

'  Gabriel  Pendle  is  trying  to  bring  the  girl  to  a  sense  of 
her  errors.' 

'  Rubbish !  She's  trying  to  bring  him  to  the  altar,  more 
like.  I'll  go  with  you,  Mr  Cargrim,  and  see  the  minx.  I 
have  long  thought  that  it  is  my  duty  to  reprove  her  and 
warn  her  mother  of  such  goings-on.  As  for  that  weak- 
minded  young  Pendle,'  cried  Mrs  Pansey,  shaking  her  head 
furiously,  *  I  pity  his  infatuation ;  but  what  can  you  expect 
D  49 


The  Bishops  Secret 

from  such  a  mother  as  his  mother  ?  Can  a  fool  produce 
sense  ?     No  ! ' 

*  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  the  young  woman  difficult  to 
deal  with.' 

'That  makes  me  all  the  more  determined  to  see  her,  Mr 
Cargrim.  I'll  lell  her  the  truth  for  once  in  her  life.  Marry 
young  Pendle  indeed ! '  snorted  the  good  lady.  *  I'll  let 
her  see.' 

'Speak  to  her  mother  first,' urged  Cargrim,  who  wished 
his  visit  to  be  less  warlike,  as  more  conducive  to  surcess. 

'  I'll  speak  to  both  of  them.  I  daresay  one  is  as  bad  as 
the  other.  I  must  have  that  public-house  removed ;  it's 
an  eye-sore  to  Beorminstcr — a  curse  to  the  place.  It  ought 
to  be  pulled  down  and  the  site  plotghed  up  and  sown  with 
salt.  Come  with  me,  Mr  Cargrim,  and  you  shall  see  how 
I  deal  with  iniquity.  I  hope  I  know  what  is  due  to 
myself.' 

'Where  is  Miss  Norsham?*  asked  the  chaplain,  when 
they  fell  into  more  general  conversation  on  their  way  to 
The  Derby  Winner. 

'Husband -hunting.  Dean  Alder  is  showing  her  the 
tombs  in  the  cathedral.  Tombs,  indeed!  It's  the  altar 
she's  interested  in.' 

'  My  dear  lady,  the  dean  is  too  old  to  marry !' 

'He  is  not  too  old  to  be  made  a  fool  of,  Mr  Cargrim. 
As  for  Daisy  Norsham,  she'd  marry  Methuselah  to  take 
away  the  slia.me  of  being  single.  Not  that  the  match  with 
Alder  will  be  out  of  the  way,  for  she's  no  chicken  herself.' 

'  I  raihtr  thought  Mr  Dean  had  an  eye  to  Miss  Whichello.' 

'Stuff!'  rejoined  Mrs  Pansey,  with  a  sniff.  'She's  far 
too  much  taken  up  with  dieting  people  to  think  of  marry- 
ing them.  She  actually  weighs  out  the  food  on  the  table 
when  meals  are  on.  No  wonder  that  poor  girl  Mub  is 
thin. 

'  But  she  isn't  too  thin  for  her  height,  Mrs  Pansey.  She 
seems  to  me  to  be  well  covered.' 

'  You  didn't  notice  her  at  the  palace,  then,'  snapped  the 
widow,  avoiding  a  direct  reply.  'She  wore  a  low-necked 
dress  which  made  me  blush.  I  don't  know  what  girls  are 
coming  to.  They'd  go  about  like  so  many  Eves  if  they 
could.* 

50 


An  Interesting  Conversation 

*  Oh,  Mrs  Pansey ! '  remonstrated  the  chaplain,  in  a  shocked 
tone. 

'Well,  it's  in  the  Bible,  isn't  it,  man?  You  aren't  going 
to  say  Holy  Writ  is  indecent,  are  you  ? ' 

'Well,  really,  Mrs  Pansey,  clergyman  as  I  am,  I  must 
say  that  there  are  parts  of  the  Bible  unfit  for  the  use  of 
schools.' 

'To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure,  Mr  Cargrim  ;  you  have 
an  impure  mind,  I  fear.  Remember  the  Thirty -Nine 
Articles  and  speak  becomingly  of  holy  things.  However, 
let  that  pass,'  added  Mrs  Pansey,  in  livelier  tones.  '  Here 
we  are,  and  there's  that  hussy  hanging  out  from  an  upper 
window  like  the  Jezebel  she  is.' 

This  remark  was  directed  against  Bell,  who,  apparently 
in  her  mother's  room,  was  at  the  window  amusing  herself 
by  watching  the  passers-by.  When  she  saw  Mrs  Pansey 
and  the  chaplain  stalking  along  in  black  garments,  and 
looking  like  two  birds  of  prey,  she  hastily  withdrew,  and 
by  the  time  they  arrived  at  the  hotel  was  at  the  doorway  to 
receive  them,  with  fixed  bayonets. 

•Young  woman,'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  severely,  *I  have  come 
to  see  your  mother,'  and  she  cast  a  disapproving  look  on 
Bell's  gay  pink  dress. 

'  She  is  not  well  enough  to  see  either  you  or  Mr  Cargrim,' 
said  Bel!,  coolly. 

*  All  the  more  reason  that  Mr  Cargrim,  as  a  clergyman, 
should  look  after  her  soul,  my  good  girl.' 

•Thank  you,  Mr  Pendle  is  doing  that.' 

•Indeed!  Mr  Pendle,  then,  combines  business  with 
pleasure.' 

Bell  quite  understood  the  insinuation  conveyed  in  this 
last  speech,  and,  firing  up,  would  have  come  to  high  words 
with  the  visitors  but  that  her  father  made  his  appearance, 
and,  as  she  did  not  wish  to  draw  forth  remarks  from  Mrs 
Pansey  about  Gabriel  in  his  hearing,  she  discreetly  held 
her  tongue.  However,  as  Mrs  Pansey  swept  by  in  triumph, 
followed  by  Cargrim,  she  looked  daggers  at  them  both,  and 
bounced  into  the  bar,  where  she  drew  beer  for  thirsty 
customers  in  a  flaming  temper.  She  dearly  desired  a  duel 
of  words  with  the  formidable  visitor. 

Mosk  was  a  lean,  tall  man  with  a  pimpled  face  and  a 

51 


The  Bishop' s  Secret 

military  moustache.  He  knew  Mrs  Pansey,  and,  like  most 
other  people,  detested  her  with  all  his  heart;  but  she  was, 
as  he  thought,  a  great  friend  of  Sir  Harry  Brace,  who  was 
his  landlord,  so  for  diplomatic  reasons  he  greeted  her  with 
all  deference,  hat  in  hand. 

'  I  have  come  with  Mr  Cargrim  to  see  your  wife,  Mr 
Mosk,'  said  the  visitor. 

'  Thank  you,  ma'am,  I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of  you,'  replied 
Mosk,  who  had  a  husky  voice  suggestive  of  beer.  'She'll  be 
honoured  to  see  you,  I'm  sure.     This  way,  ma'am.' 

'  Is  she  very  ill?'  deaianded  the  chaplain,  as  they  followed 
Mosk  to  the  back  of  the  hotel  and  up  a  narrow  staircase. 

'  She  ain't  well,  sir,  but  I  can't  say  as  she's  dying.  We 
do  all  we  can  to  make  her  easy.' 

'  Ho  ! '  from  Mrs  Pansey.  '  I  hope  your  daughter  acts 
towards  her  mother  like  as  a  daughter  should.' 

'I'd  like  to  see  the  person  as  says  she  don't,'  cried  Mr 
Mosk,  with  sudden  anger.  '  I'd  knock  his  head  off.  Bell's 
a  good  girl ;  none  better.' 

'Let  us  hope  your  trust  in  her  is  justified,*  sighed  the 
mischief-maker,  and  passed  into  the  sickroom,  leaving  Mosk 
with  an  uneasy  feeling  that  something  was  wrong.  If  the 
man  had  a  tender  spot  in  his  heart  it  was  for  his  handsome 
daughter ;  and  it  was  with  a  vague  fear  that,  after  presenting 
his  wife  to  her  visitors,  he  went  downstairs  to  the  bar.  Mrs 
Pansey  had  a  genius  for  making  mischief  by  a  timely  word. 

'Bell,'  said  he,  gruffly,  'what's  that  old  cat  hinting  at?' 

'What  about?'  asked  Bell,  tossing  her  head  till  all  her 
ornaments  jingled,  and  wiping  the  counter  furiously. 

'About  you  !     She  don't  think  I  should  trust  you.' 

'\Vhat  right  has  she  to  talk  about  me,  I'd  like  to  know!' 
cried  Bell,  getting  as  red  as  a  peony.  '  I've  never  done  any- 
thing that  anyone  can  say  a  word  against  me.' 

'  AVho  said  you  had?'  snapped  her  father;  'but  that  old 
cat  hints.' 

'  Let  her  keep  her  hints  to  herself,  then.  Because  I'm 
young  and  good-looking  she  wants  to  take  my  character 
away.     Nasty  old  puss  that  she  is  ! ' 

'That's  just  it,  my  gal.  You're  too  young  and  good- 
looking  to  escape  folks'  talking ;  and  I  hear  that  young  Mr 
Pendle  comes  round  when  I'm  away.' 

5- 


An  Interesting  Conversation 

*Who  says  he  doesn't,  father?  It's  to  see  mother;  he's  a 
parson,  ain't  he  ? ' 

*  Yes !  and  he's  gentry  too.  I  won't  have  him  paying 
attention  to  you.' 

'  You'd  better  wait  till  he  does,*  flashed  out  Bell.  *  I  can 
take  care  of  myself,  I  hope.' 

'If  I  catch  him  talking  other  than  religion  to  you  I'll 
choke  him  in  his  own  collar,*  cried  Mr  Mosk,  with  a  scowl ; 
'  so  now  you  know.* 

•I  know  as  you're  talking  nonsense,  father.  Time  enough 
for  you  to  interfere  when  there's  cause.  Now  you  clear  out 
and  let  me  get  on  with  my  work.' 

Reassured  by  the  girl's  manner,  Mosk  began  to  think 
that  Mrs  Pansey's  hints  were  all  moonshine,  and  after 
cooling  himself  with  a  glass  of  beer,  went  away  to  look  into 
his  betting-book  with  some  horsey  pals.  In  the  meantime, 
Mrs  Pansey  was  persecuting  his  wife,  a  meek,  nervous  little 
woman,  who  was  propped  up  with  pillows  in  a  large  bed, 
and  seemed  to  be  quite  overwhelmed  by  the  honour  of  Mrs 
Pansey's  call. 

'So  you  are  weak  in  the  back,  are  you?'  said  the  visitor, 
in  loud  tones.  '  If  you  are,  what  right  have  you  to  marry 
and  bring  feeble  children  into  the  world  ? ' 

'Bell  isn't  feeble,'  said  Mrs  Mosk,  weakly.  'She's  a  fine 
set-up  gal.' 

*  Set-up  and  stuck-up,'  retorted  Mrs  Pansey.  *I  tell  you 
what,  my  good  woman,  you  ought  to  be  downstairs  looking 
after  her.' 

'  Lord !  mum,  there  ain't  nothing  wrong,  I  do  devoutly 
hope.* 

'  Nothing  as  yet ;  but  you  shouldn't  have  young  gentle- 
men about  the  place.' 

'  I  can't  help  it,  mum,'  said  Mrs  Mosk,  beginning  to  cry. 

'I'm  sure  we  must  earn  our  living  somehow.     This  is  an 

*otel,  isn't  it  ?  and  Mosk's  a  pop'lar  character,  ain't  he  ?    I'm 

sure  it's  hard  enough  to  make  ends  meet  as  it  is ;  we  owe 

rent  for  half  a  year  and  can't  pay — and  won't  pay,'  wailed 

Mrs  Mosk,  'unless  my  'usband  comes  'ome  on  Skinflint.' 

•Comes  home  on  Skinflint,  woman,  what  do  you  mean?* 

'Skinflint's  a  'orse,  mum,  as  Mosk  'ave  put  his  shirt  on.' 

Mrs  Pansey  wagged  her  plumes  and  groaned.    '  I'm  sadly 

53 


The  Bishi p's  Secret 

afraid  your  husband  is  a  son  of  perdition,  Mrs  Mosk.     Put 
his  shirt  on  Skinflint,  indeed  !' 

'He's  a  good  man  to  me,  anyhow,'  cried  Mrs  Mosk, 
plucking  up  spirit. 

*  Drink  and  betting,'  continued  Mrs  Pansey,  pretending 
not  to  hear  this  feeble  defiance.  '  What  can  we  expect  from 
a  man  who  drinks  and  bets  ? ' 

'And  associates  with  bad  characters,'  put  in  Cargrim, 
seizing  his  chance. 

'That  he  don't,  sir,'  said  Mrs  Mosk,  with  energy.  *May 
I  beg  of  you  to  put  a  name  to  one  of  'em  ? ' 

'Jentham,'  said  the  chaplain,  softly.  'Who  is  Jentham, 
Mrs  Mosk?' 

'  I  know  no  more  nor  a  babe  unborn,  sir.  He's  bin  'ere 
two  weeks,  and  I  did  see  him  twice  afore  my  back  got  so 
bad  as  to  force  me  to  bed.  But  I  don't  see  why  you  calls 
him  bad,  sir.     He  pays  his  way.' 

'Oh,'  groaned  Mrs  Pansey,  '  is  it  the  chief  end  of  man  to 
pay  his  way  ? ' 

'It  is  with  us,  mum,'  retorted  Mrs  Mosk,  meekly;  'there 
ain't  no  denying  of  it.  And  Mr  Jentham  do  pay  proper 
though  he  is  a  gipsy.' 

'  He's  a  gipsy,  is  he  ? '  said  Cargrim,  alertly. 

•  So  he  says,  sir ;  and  I  knows  as  he  goes  sometimes  to 
that  camp  of  gipsies  on  Southberry  Heath.' 

'  Where  does  he  get  his  money  from  ? ' 

'  Better  not  inquire  into  that,  Mr  Cargrim,'  said  Mrs 
Pansey,  with  a  sniff. 

'  Oh,  Mr  Jentham's  honest,  I'm  sure,  mum.  He's  bin  at 
the  gold  diggin's  and  'ave  made  a  trifle  of  money.  Indeed, 
I  don't  know  where  he  ain't  been,  sir.  The  four  pints  of 
the  compass  is  all  plain  sailing  to  'im  ;  and  his  'airbreadth 
escapes  is  too  h'awful.  I  shivers  and  shudders  when  I 
'ears  'em.' 

'  What  is  he  doing  here  ? ' 

'  He's  on  business ;  but  I  don't  know  what  kind.  Oh, 
he  knows  'ow  to  'old  'is  tongue,  does  Jentham.' 

'  He  is  a  gipsy,  he  consorts  with  gipsies,  he  has  money, 
and  no  one  knows  where  he  comes  from,'  summed  up 
Cargrim.  '  I  think,  Mrs  Pansey,  we  may  regard  this  man 
as  a  dangerous  character.' 

54 


An  Interesting  Conversation 

'  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  hear  he  was  an  Anarchist,' 
said  Mrs  Pansey,  who  knew  nothing  about  the  man.  '  Well, 
Mrs  Mosk,  I  hope  we've  cheered  you  up.  I'll  go  now. 
Read  this  tract,'  bestowing  a  grimy  little  pamphlet,  'and 
don't  see  too  much  of  Mr  Pendle.' 

•But  he  comforts  me,'  said  poor  Mrs  Mosk;  'he  reads 
beautiful.' 

Mrs  Pansey  grunted.  Bold  as  she  was  she  did  not  like 
to  speak  quite  plainly  to  the  woman,  as  too  free  speech 
might  inculpate  Gabriel  and  bring  ihe  bishop  to  the  rescue. 
Besides,  Mrs  Pansey  had  no  evidence  to  bring  forward  to 
prove  that  Gabriel  was  in  love  with  Bell  Mosk.  Therefore 
she  said  nothing,  but,  like  the  mariner's  parrot,  thought  the 
more.  Shaking  out  her  dark  skirts  she  rose  to  go,  with 
another  grunt  full  of  unspoken  sus[)icions. 

*  Good-day,  Mrs  Mosk,'  said  she,  pausing  at  the  door. 
*When  you  are  low-spirited  send  for  me  to  cheer  you  up.' 

Mrs  Mosk  attempted  a  curtsey  in  bed,  which  was  a 
failure  owing  to  her  sitting  position ;  but  Mrs  Pansey  did 
not  see  the  attempt,  as  she  was  already  half-way  down  the 
stairs,  followed  by  Cargrim.  The  chaplain  had  learned  a 
trifle  more  about  the  mysterious  Jentham  and  was  quite 
satisfied  with  his  visit ;  but  he  was  more  puzzled  than  ever. 
A  tramp,  a  gipsy,  an  adventurer — what  had  such  a  creature 
in  common  with  Bishop  Pendle?  To  Mr  Cargrim's  eye  the 
affair  of  the  visit  began  to  assume  the  proportions  of  a 
criminal  case.  But  all  the  information  he  had  gathered 
proved  nothing,  so  it  only  remained  to  wait  for  the 
bishop's  return  and  see  what  discoveries  he  could  make  in 
that  direction.  If  Jentham's  name  was  in  the  cheque-book 
the  chaplain  would  be  satisfied  that  there  was  an  under- 
standing between  the  pair ;  and  then  his  next  move  would 
be  to  learn  what  the  understanding  was.  When  he  dis- 
covered that,  he  had  no  doubt  but  that  he  would  have  Dr 
Pendle  under  his  thumb,  which  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
Mr  Cargrim  and  an  unpleasant  position  for  the  bishop. 

Mrs  Pansey  stalked  down  to  the  bar,  and  seeing  Bell 
therein,  silently  placed  a  little  tract  on  the  counter.  No 
sooner  had  she  left  the  house  than  Bell  snatched  up 
the  tract,  and  rushing  to  the  door  flung  it  after  the  good 
lady. 


Tke  Bishops  Secret 

•You  need  it  more  than  I  do,'  she  cried,  and  bounced 
into  the  house  again. 

It  was  with  a  quiver  of  rage  that  Mrs  Pansey  turned  to 
the  chaplain.  She  was  almost  past  speech,  but  with  some 
difficulty  and  much  choking  managed  to  convey  her  feelings 
in  two  words. 

'  The  creature  ! '  gasped  Mrs  Pansey,  and  shook  her  skirts 
as  if  to  rid  herself  of  some  taint  contracted  at  The  Derby 
Winner. 


I 

i 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ON  SATURDAY   NIGHT 

The  bishop  returned  on  Saturday  morning  instead  of  on 
Friday  night  as  arranged,  and  was  much  more  cheerful  than 
when  he  left,  a  state  of  mind  which  irritated  Cargrim  in  no 
small  degree,  and  also  perplexed  him  not  a  little.  If  Dr 
Pendle's  connection  with  Jentham  was  dangerous  he  should 
still  be  ill  at  ease  and  anxious,  instead  of  which  he  was 
almost  his  old  genial  self  when  he  joined  his  wife  and  Lucy 
at  their  afternoon  tea.  Sir  Harry  was  not  present,  but  Mr 
Cargrim  supplied  his  place,  an  exchange  which  was  not  at 
all  to  Lucy's  mind.  The  Pendles  treated  the  chaplain 
always  with  a  certain  reserve,  and  the  only  person  who 
really  thought  him  the  good  young  man  he  appeared  to  be, 
was  the  bishop's  wife.  But  kindly  Mrs  Pendle  was  the  most 
innocent  of  mortals,  and  all  geese  were  swans  to  her.  She 
had  not  the  necessary  faculty  of  seeing  through  a  brick  wall 
with  which  nature  had  gifted  Mrs  Pansey  in  so  extra- 
ordinary a  degree. 

As  a  rule,  Mr  Cargrim  did  not  come  to  afternoon  tea,  but 
on  tills  occasion  he  presented  himself;  ostensibly  to  wel- 
come back  his  patron,  in  reality  to  watch  him.  Also  he 
was  determined,  at  the  very  first  opportunity,  to  introduce 
the  name  of  Jentham  and  observe  what  effect  it  had  on 
the  bishop.  With  these  little  plans  in  his  mind  the  chap>- 
lain  crept  about  the  tea-table  like  a  tame  cat,  and  handed 
round  cake  and  bread  with  his  most  winning  smile.  Hio 
;->ale  face  was  even  more  inexpressive  than  usual,  and  none 
could  have  guessed,  from  outward  appearance,  his  malicious 
intents — least  of  all  the  trio  he  was  with.  They  were  too 
upright  themselves  to  suspect  evil  in  others. 

'  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  are  better,  bishop,'  said  Mrs 

5  57 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

Pendle,  languidly  trifling  with  a  cup  of  tea.     '  Your  journey 
has  done  you  good.' 

'Change  of  air,  change  of  air,  my  dear.  A  wonderful 
restorative.' 

*  Your  business  was  all  right,  I  hope?' 

*0h,  yes!  Indeed,  I  hardly  went  up  on  business,  and 
what  I  did  do  was  a  mere  trifle,'  replied  the  bishop,  smooth- 
ing his  apron.  '  Has  Gabriel  been  here  to-day  ? '  he  added, 
obviously  desirous  of  turning  the  conversation. 

'  Twice  ! '  said  Lucy,  who  presided  over  the  tea-table ; '  and 
the  second  time  he  told  mamma  that  he  had  received  a 
letter  from  George.' 

'  Ay,  ay !  a  letter  from  George.  Is  he  quite  well, 
Lucy  ? ' 

*We  shall  see  that  for  ourselves  this  evening,  papa. 
George  is  coming  to  Beorminster,  and  will  be  here  about 
ten  o'clock  to-night' 

'  How  vexing  !  *  exclaimed  Dr  Pendle.  *  I  intended 
going  over  to  Southberry  this  evening,  but  I  can't  miss 
seeing  George.' 

'Ride  over  to-morrow  morning,  bishop,'  suggested  his 
wife. 

'  Sunday  morning,  my  dear  !  * 

'Well,  papa!'  said  Lucy,  smiling,  'you  are  not  a  strict 
Sabbatarian,  you  know,' 

*  I  am  not  so  good  as  I  ought  to  be,  my  dear,'  said  Dr 
Pendle,  playfully  pinching  her  pretty  ear.  '  Well !  well !  I 
must  see  George.  I'll  go  to-morrow  morning  at  eight 
o'clock.  You'll  send  a  telegram  to  Mr  Vasser  to  that 
effect,  if  you  please,  Mr  Cargrim.  Say  that  1  regret  not 
being  able  to  come  to-night' 

'Certainly,  ray  lord.  In  any  case,  I  am  going  in  to 
Beorminster  this  evening.' 

'You  are  usually  more  stay-at-home,  Mr  Cargrim. 
Thank  you,  Lucy,  I  will  take  another  cup  of  tea.' 

*  I  do  not  care  for  going  out  at  night  as  a  rule,  my  lord, 
observed  the  chaplain,  in  his  most  sanctimonious  tone,  'but 
duty  calls  me  into  Beorminster.  I  am  desirous  of  comfort- 
ing poor  sick  Mrs  Mosk  at  The  Derby  Winner.' 

'  Oh,  that  is  Gabriel's  pet  invalid,'  cried  Lucy,  peering 
into  the  teapot ; '  he  says  Mrs  Mosk  is  a  very  good  woman.' 

58 


071  Saturday  Night 

'  I^t  us  hope  so,'  observed  the  bishop,  stirring  his  new 
cup  of  tea.  '  I  do  not  wish  to  be  uncharitable,  my  dear, 
but  if  Mrs  Pansey  is  to  be  believed,  that  public-house  is 
not  conducted  so  carefully  as  it  should  be.' 

'  But  is  Mrs  Pansey  to  be  beheved,  bishop  ? '  asked  his 
wife,  smiling. 

'  I  don't  think  she  would  tell  a  deliberate  falsehood,  my 
love.* 

'  All  the  same,  she  might  exaggerate  little  into  much,'  said 
Lucy,  with  a  pretty  grimace.  '  What  is  your  opinion  of  this 
hotel,  Mr  Cargrim  ? ' 

The  chaplain  saw  his  opportunity  and  seized  it  at  once. 

•  My  dear  Miss  Pendle,'  he  said,  showing  all  his  teeth,  '  as 
The  Derby  Winner  is  the  property  of  Sir  Harry  Brace  I 
wish  I  could  speak  well  of  it,  but  candour  compels  me  to 
confess  that  it  is  a  badly-conducted  house.' 

'  Tut !  tut  r  said  the  bishop,  *  what  is  tliis  ?  You  don't 
say  so.* 

•Harry  shall  shut  it  up  at  once,'  cried  Lucy,  the  pretty 
Puritan. 

'  It  is  a  resort  of  bad  characters,  I  fear,'  sighed  Cargrim, 

•  and  Mrs  Mosk,  being  an  invaUd,  is  not  able  to  keep  them 
away.' 

'  What  about  the  landlord,  Mr  Cargrim  ? ' 

'  Aha ! '  replied  the  chaplain,  turning  towards  Mrs  Pendle, 
who  had  asked  this  question,  '  he  is  a  man  of  lax  morals. 
His  boon  companion  is  a  tramp  called  Jentham  ! ' 

'  Jentham ! '  repeated  Dr  Pendle,  in  so  complacent  a  tone 
that  Cargrim,  with  some  vexation,  saw  that  he  did  not 
associate  the  name  with  his  visitor ;  '  and  who  is  Jentham  ? ' 

'  I  hardly  know,'  said  the  chaplain,  making  another 
attempt ;  '  he  is  a  tramp,  as  I  have  reason  to  believe,  and 
consorts  with  gipsies.  I  saw  him  myself  the  other  day — a 
tall,  lean  man  with  a  scar.' 

The  bishop  rose,  and  walking  over  to  the  tea-table  placed 
his  cup  carefully  thereon.  '  With  a  scar,'  he  repeated  in 
low  tones.  '  A  man  with  a  scar — ^Jentham — indeed  1  What 
do  you  know  of  this  person,  Mr  Cargrim  ? ' 

'  Absolutely  nothing,'  rejoined  the  chaplain,  with  a 
satisfied  glance  at  the  uneasy  face  of  his  questioner.  '  He 
is  a  gipsy;    he  stays  at  The  Derby  Winner  and  pays 

59 


The  Bishops  Secret 

regularly  for  his  lodgings;  and  his  name   is  Jentham.     I 
know  no  more.' 

'  I  don't  suppose  there  is  more  to  know,'  cried  Luq^, 
lightly. 

*  If  there  is,  the  police  may  find  out.  Miss  Pendle.' 

The  bishop  frowned.  '  As  the  man,  so  far  as  we  know, 
has  done  notliing  against  the  laws,'  said  he,  quickly,  '  I  see 
no  reason  why  the  police  should  be  mentioned  in  connec- 
tion with  him.  Evidently,  from  what  Mr  Cargrim  says,  he 
is  a  rolling  stone,  and  probably  will  not  remain  much 
longer  in  Beorminster.  Let  us  hope  that  he  will  take 
himself  and  his  bad  influence  away  from  our  city.  In  the 
meantime,  it  is  hardly  worth  our  while  to  discuss  a  person 
of  so  little  importance.' 

In  this  skilful  way  the  bishop  put  an  end  to  the  con- 
versation, and  Cargrim,  fearful  of  rousing  his  suspicions,  did 
not  dare  to  resume  it.  In  a  little  while,  after  a  few  kind 
words  to  his  wife,  Dr  Pendle  left  the  drawing-room  for  his 
study.  As  he  passed  out,  Cargrim  noticed  that  the  haggard 
look  had  conie  back  to  his  face,  and  once  or  twice  he 
glanced  anxiously  at  his  w'ife.  In  his  turn  Cargrim 
examined  Mrs  Pendle,  but  saw  nothing  in  her  manner 
likely  to  indicate  that  she  shared  the  uneasiness  of  her 
husband,  or  knew  the  cause  of  his  secret  anxiety.  She 
looked  calm  and  content,  and  there  was  a  gentle  smile  in 
her  weary  eyes.  Evidently  the  bishop's  mind  "^vas  set  at 
rest  by  her  placid  looks,  for  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  reh'ef  that 
he  left  the  room.  Cargrim  noted  the  look  and  heard  the 
sigh,  but  was  wholly  in  the  dark  regarding  their  meaning. 

'Though  I  daresay  they  have  to  do  with  Jentham  and 
this  secret,'  he  thought,  when  bowing  himself  out  of  the 
drawing-room.  *  Whatever  the  matter  may  be,  Dr  Pendle 
is  evidently  most  anxious  to  keep  his  wife  from  knowing  of 
it.  All  the  better.'  He  rubbed  his  hands  together  with  a 
satisfied  smirk.  '  Such  anxiety  shows  that  the  secret  is 
worth  learning.  Sooner  or  later  I  shall  find  it  out,  and 
then  I  can  insist  uf)on  being  the  rector  of  Heathcroft.  I 
have  no  time  to  lose,  so  I  shall  go  to  The  Derby  Winner 
to-night  and  see  if  I  can  induce  this  mysterious  Jentham 
to  speak  out  He  looks  a  drunken  dog,  so  a  glass  of  wine 
may  unloosen  his  tongue.' 

60 


On  Saturday  Alight 

From  this  speech  it  can  be  seen  that  Mr  Cargrim  was 
true  to  his  Jesuitic  instincts,  and  thought  no  action  dis- 
honourable so  long  as  it  aided  him  to  gain  his  ends.  He 
was  a  methodical  scoundrel,  too,  and  arranged  the  details 
of  his  scheme  with  the  utmost  circumspection.  For 
instance,  prior  to  seeing  the  man  with  the  scar,  he  thought 
it  advisable  to  find  out  if  the  bishop  had  drawn  a  large  sum 
of  money  while  in  London  for  the  purpose  of  bribing  the 
creature  to  silence.  Therefore,  before  leaving  the  palace,  he 
made  several  attempts  to  examine  the  cheque-book.  But 
Dr  Pendle  remained  constantly  at  his  desk  in  the  Ubrary, 
and  although  the  plotter  actually  saw  the  cheque-book  at  the 
elbow  of  his  proposed  victim,  he  was  unable,  without  any 
good  reason,  to  pick  it  up  and  satisfy  his  curiosity.  He  was 
therefore  obliged  to  defer  any  attempt  to  obtain  it  until  the 
next  day,  as  the  bishop  would  probably  leave  it  behind  him 
when  he  rode  over  to  Southberry,  This  failure  vexed  the 
chaplain,  as  he  wished  to  be  forearmed  in  his  interview  with 
Jentham,  but,  as  there  was  no  help  for  it,  he  was  obliged  to 
put  the  cart  before  the  horse — in  other  words,  to  learn  what 
he  could  from  the  man  first  and  settle  the  bribery  question 
by  a  peep  into  the  cheque-book  afterwards.  The  ingenious 
Mr  Cargrim  was  by  no  means  pleased  with  this  slip-slop 
method  of  conducting  business.  There  wa?  method  in  his 
villainy. 

That  evening,  after  despatching  the  telegram  to  South- 
berry,  the  chaplain  repaired  to  The  Derby  Winner  and 
found  it  largely  patronised  by  a  noisy  and  thirsty  crowd. 
The  weather  was  tropical,  the  workmen  of  Beorminster  had 
received  their  wages,  so  they  were  converting  the  coin  of 
the  realm  into  beer  and  whisky  as  speedily  as  possibly. 
The  night  was  calm  and  comparatively  cool  with  the 
spreading  darkness,  and  the  majority  of  the  inhabitants 
were  seated  outside  their  doors  gossiping  and  taking  the 
air.  Children  were  playing  in  the  street,  their  shrill  voices 
at  times  interrupting  the  continuous  chatter  of  the  women  ; 
and  The  Derby  Winner,  flaring  with  gas,  was  stuflfed  as 
full  as  it  could  hold  with  artizans,  workmen,  Irish  harvesters 
and  stablemen,  all  more  or  less  exhilarated  with  alcohoL 
It  was  by  no  means  a  scene  into  which  the  fastidious 
Cargrim  would  have  ventured  of  his  own  free  will,  but  his 

6> 


The  Dishofs  Secret 

desire  to  pump  Jentham  was  greater  than  his  sense  of 
di'^gust,  and  he  walked  briskly  into  the  hotel,  to  where  Mr 
Mosk  and  Bell  were  dispensing  drinks  as  fast  as  they  were 
able.  The  crowd,  having  an  inherent  respect  for  the 
clergy,  as  became  the  inhabitants  of  a  cathedral  city, 
opened  out  to  let  him  pass,  and  there  was  much  less  swear- 
ing and  drinking  when  his  black  coat  and  clerical  collar 
came  into  view.  Mosk  saw  that  the  appearance  of  the 
chaplain  was  detrimental  to  business,  and  resenting  his 
presence  gave  him  but  a  surly  greeting.  As  to  Bell,  she 
tossed  her  head,  shot  a  withering  glance  of  defiance  at  the 
bland  newcomer,  and  withdrew  to  the  far  end  of  the  bar. 

•  My  friend,'  said  Cargrim,  in  his  softest  tones,  •  I  have 
come  to  see  your  wife  and  inquire  how  she  is.' 

'She's  well  enough,'  growled  Mosk,  pushing  a  foaming 
tankard  towards  an  expectant  navvy,  'and  what's  more,  sir, 
she's  asleep,  sir,  so  you  can't  see  her.' 

*I  should  be  sorry  to  disturb  her,  Mr  Mosk,  so  I  will 
postpone  my  visit  till  a  more  fitted  occasion.  You  seem  to 
be  busy  to-night.' 

*So  busy  that  I've  got  no  time  for  talking,  sir.* 

•  Far  be  it  from  me  to  distract  your  attention,  my  worthy 
friend,'  was  the  chaplain's  bland  reply,  'but  with  your  per- 
mission I  will  remain  in  this  corner  and  enjoy  the  humours 
of  the  scene.' 

Mosk  inwardly  cursed  the  visitor  for  making  this  modest 
request,  as  he  detested  parsons  on  account  of  their  aptitude 
to  make  teetotalers  of  his  customers.  He  was  a  brute  in 
his  way,  and  a  Radical  to  boot,  so  if  he  had  dared  he  would 
have  driven  forth  Cargrim  with  a  few  choice  oaths.  But  as 
his  visitor  was  the  chaplain  of  the  ecclesiastical  sovereign 
of  Beorminster,  and  was  acquainted  with  Sir  Harry  Brace, 
the  owner  of  the  hotel,  and  further,  as  Mosk  could  not  pay 
his  rent  and  was  already  in  bad  odour  with  his  landlord,  he 
judged  it  wise  to  be  diplomatic,  lest  a  word  from  Cargrim 
to  the  bishop  and  Sir  Harry  should  make  matters  worse. 
He  therefore  grudgingly  gave  the  required  permission. 

'Though  this  ain't  a  sight  fit  for  the  likes  of  you,  sir,'  he 
grumbled,  waving  his  hand.  'This  lot  smells  and  they 
swears,  and  they  gets  rowdy  in  their  cups,  so  I  won't 
answer  as  they  won't  offend  you.' 

63 


On  Saturday  Night 

*My  duty  has  carried  me  into  much  more  unsavoury 
localities,  my  friend.  The  worse  the  place  the  more  is 
my  presence,  as  a  clergyman,  necessary.' 

*  You  ain't  going  to  preach,  sir  ? '  cried  Mosk,  in  alarm. 

*  No !  that  would  indeed  be  casting  pearls  before  swine, 
replied  Cargrim,  in  his  cool  tones.  *  But  I  will  observe  and 
reflect.* 

The  landlord  looked  uneasy.  '  I  know  as  the  place  is 
rough,'  he  said  apologetically,  '  but  'tain't  my  fault.  You 
won't  go  talking  to  Sir  Harry,  I  hope,  sir,  and  take  the 
bread  out  of  my  mouth?' 

'Make  your  mind  easy,  Mosk.  It  is  not  my  place  to 
carry  tales  to  your  landlord ;  and  I  am  aware  that  the  lower 
orders  cannot  conduct  themselves  with  decorum,  especially 
on  Saturday  night.  I  repine  that  such  a  scene  should  be 
possible  in  a  Christian  land,  but  I  don't  blame  you  for  its 
existence.' 

'  That's  all  right,  sir,'  said  Mosk,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  '  I'm 
rough  but  honest,  whatever  lies  may  be  told  to  the  contrary. 
If  I  can't  pay  my  rent,  that  ain't  my  fault,  I  hope,  as  it  ain't 
to  be  expected  as  I  can  do  miracles.' 

'  The  age  of  miracles  is  past,  my  worthy  friend,'  replied 
Cargrim,  in  conciliatory  tones.  '  We  must  not  expect  the 
impossible  nowadays.  By  the  way ' — with  a  sudden  change 
— '  have  you  a  man  called  Jentham  here  ?  * 

*  Yes,  I  have,'  growled  Mosk,  looking  suspiciously  at  his 
questioner.     *  What  do  you  know  of  him,  sir  ?  * 

*  Nothing ;  but  I  take  an  interest  in  him  as  he  seems  to 
be  one  who  has  known  better  days.' 

*  He  don't  know  them  now,  at  all  events,  Mr  Cargrim. 
He  owes  me  money  for  this  last  week,  he  does.  He  paid 
all  right  at  fust,  but  he  don't  pay  now.' 

•Indeed,'  said  the  chaplain,  pricking  up  his  ears,  'he 
owes  you  money?' 

'That  he  does;  more  nor  two  quid,  sir.  But  he  says 
hell  pay  me  soon.' 

*  Ah !  he  says  he'll  pay  you  soon,'  repeated  Cargrim ;  *  he 
expects  to  receive  money,  then  ? ' 

*  I  s'pose  so,  tho'  Lord  knows  ! — I  beg  pardon,  sir — tho' 
goodness  knows  where  it's  coming  from.  He  don't  work 
or  get  wages  as  I  can  see.' 

63 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  I  think  I  know,'  thought  Cargrim ;  then  added  aloud, 
•Is  the  man  here?' 

'  In  the  coffee  room  yonder,  sir.  Half  drunk  he  is,  and 
lying  like  a  good  one.     The  yarns  he  reels  off  is  wonderTul.' 

'No  doubt;  a  man  like  that  mu>t  be  interesting  to  listen 
to.  With  your  permission,  Mr  Mosk,  I'll  go  into  the  coffee- 
room.' 

'  Straight  ahead,  sir.  Will  you  take  something  to  drink, 
if  I  may  make  so  bold,  Mr  Cargrim  ?' 

*No,  my  friend,  no;  thank  you  all  the  same,'  and  with 
a  nod  Cargrim  pushed  his  way  into  the  coffee-room  to  see 
the  man  with  the  scar. 


i4 


CHAPTER   IX 

AN   EXCITING   ADVENTURE 

Mr  Cargrim  found  a  considerable  number  of  people  in  the 
coffee-room,  and  these,  with  tankards  and  glasses  before 
them,  were  listening  to  the  conversation  of  Jentham. 
Tobacco  smoke  filled  the  apartment  with  a  thick  atmo- 
sphere of  fog,  through  which  the  gas-lights  flared  in  a 
nebulous  fashion,  and  rendered  the  air  so  hot  that  it  was 
difficult  to  breathe  in  spite  of  the  windows  being  open.  At 
the  head  of  the  long  table  sat  Jentham,  drinking  brandy- 
and-soda,  and  speaking  in  his  cracked,  refined  voice  with 
considerable  spirit,  his  rat-like,  quick  eyes  glittering  the 
while  with  alcoholic  lustre.  He  seemed  to  be  considerably 
under  the  influence  of  drink,  and  his  voice  ran  up  and 
down  from  bass  to  treble  as  he  became  excited  in  narrating 
his  adventures. 

Whether  these  were  true  or  false  Cargrim  could  not 
determine ;  for  although  the  man  trenched  again  and  again 
on  the  marvellous,  he  certainly  seemed  to  be  fully  acquainted 
with  what  he  was  talking  about,  and  related  the  most  won- 
derful stories  in  a  thoroughly  dramatic  fashion.  Like 
Ulysses,  he  knew  men  and  cities,  and  appeared  to  have 
travelled  as  much  as  that  famous  globe-trotter.  In  his 
narration  he  passed  from  China  to  Chili,  sailed  north  to  the 
Pole,  steamed  south  to  the  Horn,  described  the  paradise  of 
the  South  Seas,  and  discoursed  about  the  wild  wastes  of 
snowy  Siberia.  The  capitals  of  Eu;ope  appeared  to  be  as 
familiar  to  him  as  the  chair  he  was  seated  in ;  and  the 
steppes  of  Russia,  the  deserts  of  Africa,  the  sheep  runs  of 
Australia  were  all  mentioned  in  turn,  as  adventure  after 
adventure  fell  from  his  lips.  And  mixed  up  with  these 
geographical  accounts  were  thriUing  tales  of  treasure-hunt- 
ing, of  escapes  from  savages,  of  perilous  deeds  in  the  secret 
E  65 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

places  of  great  cities ;  and  details  of  blood,  and  war,  and 
lust,  and  hate,  all  told  in  a  fiercely  dramatic  fashion.  The 
man  was  a  tramp,  a  gipsy,  a  ragged,  penniless  roUmg-stone ; 
but  in  his  own  way  he  was  a  genius.  Cargrim  wondered, 
with  all  his  bravery,  and  endurance,  and  resource,  that  he 
had  not  made  his  fortune.  The  eloquent  scamp  seemed  to 
wonder  also. 

•For,'  said  he,  striking  the  table  with  his  fist,  'I  have 
never  been  able  to  hold  what  I  won.  I've  been  a  million- 
aire twice  over,  but  the  gold  wouldn't  stay;  it  drifted  away, 
it  was  swept  away,  it  vanished,  like  Macbeth's  witches,  into 
thin  air.  Look  at  me,  you  country  cabbages !  I've  reigned 
a  king  amongst  savages.  A  poor  sort  of  king,  say  you  ;  but 
a  king's  a  king,  say  I ;  and  king  I  have  been.  Yet  here  I 
am,  sitting  in  a  Beorminster  gutter,  but  I  don't  stay  in  it. 

By ,'  he  confirmed  his  purpose  with  an  oath,  '  not  I.    I've 

got  my  plans  laid,  and  they'll  lift  me  up  to  the  stars  yet.' 

'  Hev  you  the  money,  mister  ? '  inquired  a  sceptical 
listener. 

'What's  that  to  you?'  cried  Jentham,  and  finished  his 
drink.  '  Yes,  I  have  money  ! '  He  set  down  his  empty  glass 
with  a  bang.  '  At  least  I  know  where  to  get  it.  Bah  !  you 
fools,  one  can  get  blood  out  of  a  stone  if  one  knows  how  to 
go  about  it.  I  know  !  I  know  1  My  Tom  Tiddler's  ground 
isn't  far  from  your  holy  township,'  and  he  began  to  sing, — 

•  Southberry  Heath's  Tom  Tiddler's  ground, 
Gold  and  silver  are  there  to  be  founc). 
It's  dropped  by  the  priest,  picked  up  by  the  knavet 
For  the  one  is  a  coward,  the  other  is  brave. 

More  brandy,  waiter;  make  it  stiff,  sonny!  stiff!  stiff! 
stiff!' 

The  man's  wild  speech  and  rude  song  were  unintelligible 
to  his  stupid,  drink-bemused  audience ;  but  the  keen  brain 
of  the  schemer  lurking  near  the  door  picked  up  their  sense 
at  once.  Dr  Pendle  was  the  priest  who  was  to  drop  the 
money  on  Southberry  Heath,  and  Jentham  the  knave  who 
was  to  pick  it  up.  As  certainly  as  though  the  man  had 
given  chapter  and  verse,  Cargrim  understood  his  enigmatic 
stave.  His  mind  flashed  back  to  the  memory  that  Dr 
Pendle  intended  to  ride  over  to  Southberry  in  the  morning, 

66 


An  Exciting  Adventure 

across  the  heath.  Without  doubt  he  had  agreed  to  meet 
there  this  man  who  boasted  that  he  could  get  blood  out 
of  a  stone,  and  the  object  of  the  meeting  was  to  bribe  him 
to  silence.  But  however  loosely  Jentham  alluded  to  his 
intention  of  picking  up  gold,  he  was  cunning  enough,  with 
all  his  excitement,  to  hold  his  tongue  as  to  how  he  could 
work  such  a  miracle.  Undoubtedly  there  was  a  secret 
between  Dr  Pendle  and  tuis  scamp;  but  what  it  might  be, 
Cargrim  could  by  no  means  guess.  Was  Jentham  a  dis- 
reputable relation  of  the  bisliop's?  Had  Dr  Pendle  com- 
mitted a  crime  in  his  youth  for  which  he  was  now  being 
blackmailed?  What  could  be  the  nature  of  the  secret 
which  gave  this  unscrupulous  blackguard  a  hold  on  a 
dignitary  of  the  Church?  Cargrim's  brain  was  quite 
bewildered  by  his  conjectures. 

Hitherto  Jentham  had  been  in  the  blabbing  st^Tge  of 
intoxication,  but  after  another  glass  of  drink  he  relapsed 
into  a  sullen,  silent  condition,  and  with  his  eyes  on  the 
table  pulled  fiercely  at  his  pipe,  so  that  his  wicked  face 
looked  out  like  that  of  a  devil  from  amid  the  rolling  clouds 
of  smoke.  His  audience  waited  open-mouthed  for  more 
stories,  but  as  their  entertainer  seemed  too  moody  to  tell 
them  any  more,  they  began  to  talk  amongst  themselves, 
principally  about  horses  and  dogs.  It  was  now  growing 
late,  and  the  most  respectable  of  the  crowd  were  moving 
homeward.  Cargrim  felt  that  to  keep  up  the  dignity  of  his 
cloth  he  should  depart  also ;  for  several  looks  of  surprise 
were  cast  in  his  direction.  But  Jentham  and  his  wild 
speeches  fascinated  him,  and  he  lurked  in  his  corner, 
watching  the  sullen  face  of  the  man  until  the  two  were  left 
the  sole  occupants  of  the  room.  Then  Jentham  looked  up 
to  call  the  waiter  to  bring  him  a  final  drink,  and  his  eyes 
met  those  of  Mr  Cargrim.  After  a  keen  glance  he 
suddenly  broke  into  a  peal  of  discordant  laughter,  which 
died  away  into  a  savage  and  menacing  growl. 

•  Hallo ! '  he  grumbled,  *  here  is  the  busybody  of  Beor- 
minster.     And  what  may  you  want,  Mr  Paul  Pry?' 

•A  little  civility  in  the  first  place,  my  worthy  friend,'  said 
Cargrim,  in  silky  tones,  for  he  did  not  relish  the  insolent 
tone  of  the  satirical  scamp. 

*  I  am  no  friend  to  spies !  * 

67 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that,  fellow?' 

'  Vou  call  me  a  fellow  and  I'll  knock  your  head  off,'  cried 
jcntham,  rising  with  a  savai^e  look  in  his  eyes.  'If  you 
aren't  a  spy  why  d'^  you  come  sneaking  round  here?' 

'I  came  to  see  NIrs  Mosk,*  explained  the  chaplain,  in  a 
mighty  dignified  manner,  '  but  slie  is  asleep,  so  I  could  not 
see  her.  In  passing  the  dmir  of  this  room  I  heard  you 
relating  your  adventures,  and  1  naturally  stopped  to  listen.' 

'To  hear  if  I  had  anything  to  say  ahout  my  visit  to  your 
hishop,  I  suppose?'  gro\wLd  Jentham,  unpleasantly.  'I 
have  a  great  mind  to  1*^11  him  how  you  watch  me,  you 
infernal  devil-dodger ! ' 

•  Respect  my  cloth,  sir.' 

'  Bet^in  by  respecting  it  yourself,  d you.     What  would 

his  lord<;hip  of  Beorminster  say  if  he  knew  you  were  here?' 

'  His  lordship  does  know.' 

Jentham  started.  '  Perhaps  he  sent  you  ? '  he  said, 
looking  doubtful. 

*No,  he  did  not,'  contradicted  Cargrim,  who  saw  that 
nothing  was  to  be  learned  while  the  man  was  thus  bemused 
with  drink.  '  I  have  told  you  the  reason  of  my  presence 
here.  And  as  I  am  here,  I  warn  you,  as  a  clergyman,  not  to 
drink  any  more.     Vou  have  already  had  more  than  enough.' 

Jeniham  was  staggered  by  the  boldness  of  the  chaplain, 
and  stared  at  him  open-mouthed ;  then  recovering  his 
speech,  he  poured  forth  such  a  volley  of  vile  words  at 
Cargrim  that  the  chaplain  stepped  to  the  door  and  called 
the  landlord-  He  felt  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  assert 
himself. 

'Tills  man  is  drunk,  Mosk,*  said  he,  sharply,  'and  if  you 
keep  such  a  creature  on  your  premises  you  will  get  into 
trouble.' 

'Creature  yourself!'  cried  Jentham,  advancing  towards 
Cargrim.  '  I'll  wring  your  neck  if  you  use  such  language 
to  me.  I've  killed  fifty  better  men  than  you  in  my  time. 
Mosk!'  he  turned  with  a  snarl  on  the  landlord,  'get  me  a 
drink  of  brandy.' 

'  I  think  you've  had  enough,  Mr  Jentham,'said  the  landlord, 
with  a  glance  at  Cargrim,  'and  you  know  you  owe  me  money.' 

'Curse  you,  what  of  that?'  raved  Jentham,  stamping. 
'Do  you  tliink  Til  not  pay  you?* 

68 


An  Exciti7ig  Adveitture 

*  I've  not  seen  the  colour  of  your  money  lately.' 
'You'll  see  it   when    I  choose.     I'll  have  hundreds  of 
pounds  next  week — hundreds  ; '  and  he  broke  out  fiercely, 
'get  me  more  brandy;  don't  mind  that  devil-dodger.' 
'  Go  to  bed,'  said  Mosk,  retiring,  '  go  to  bed.' 
Jentham  ran   after  him  with  an  angry  cry,  so  Cargrim, 
feeling  himself  somewhat  out  of  place  in  this  pot-house  row, 
nodded  to  Mosk  and  left  the  hotel  with  as  much  dignity  as 
he  could  muster.     As  he  went,  the  burden  of  Jentham's  last 
speech — '  hundreds  of  pounds  !  hundreds  of  pounds  ! ' — rang 
in  his  ears ;  and  more  than  ever  he  desired  to  examine  the 
bishop's  cheque-book,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  exact  sum. 
The  secret,  he  thought,  must   indeed  be  a  precious  one 
when  the  cost  of  its  preservation  ran  into  three  figures. 

When  Cargrim  emerged  into  the  street  it  was  still  filled 
with  people,  as  ten  o'clock  was  just  chiming  from  the 
cathedral  tower.  The  gossipers  had  retired  within,  and 
lights  were  gleaming?  in  the  upper  windows  of  the  houses ; 
but  knots  of  neighbours  still  stood  about  here  and  there, 
talking  and  laughing  loudly.  Cargrim  strolled  slowly  down 
the  street  towards  the  Eastgate,  musing  over  his  late 
experience,  and  enjoying  the  coolness  of  the  night  air  after 
the  sultry  atmosphere  of  the  coffee-room.  The  sky  was 
now  brilliant  with  stars,  and  a  silver  moon  rolled  aloft  in 
the  blue  arch,  shedding  down  floods  of  light  on  the  to\Vn, 
and  investing  its  commonplace  aspect  with  something  of 
romance.  The  streets  were  radiant  with  the  cold,  clear 
lustre ;  the  shadows  cast  by  the  houses  lay  black  as  Indian 
ink  on  the  ground;  and  the  laughter  and  noise  of  the 
passers-by  seemed  woefully  out  of  place  in  this  magical 
white  world. 

Cargrim  was  alive  to  the  beauty  of  the  night,  but  was  too 
much  taken  up  with  his  thoughts  to  pay  much  attention  to 
its  mingled  mystery  of  shadow  and  light.  As  he  took  his 
musing  way  through  the  wide  streets  of  the  modern  town, 
he  was  suddenly  brought  to  a  standstill  by  hearing  the 
voice  of  Jentham  some  distance  away.  Evidently  the  man 
had  quarrelled  with  the  landlord,  and  had  been  turned  out 
of  the  hotel,  for  he  came  rolling  along  in  a  lurching, 
drunken  manner,  roaring  out  a  wild  and  savage  ditty,  picked 
up,  no  doubt,  in  some  land  at  the  back  of  beyond. 

69 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

Oh,  I  liave  trekcd  the  eight  world  clime», 

And  sailed  the  seven  seas  : 
I've  made  my  pile  a  hundred  times, 

And  chucked  the  lot  on  sprees. 

But  w'.icn  my  ship  comes  home,  my  lads, 

^Vlly,  curse  me,  don't  I  know 
The  spot  that's  worth,  the  blooming  earth. 

The  spot  where  I  shall  go. 

They  call  it  Callao  !  for  oh,  it's  Callao. 

For  on  no  conditiou 

Is  extradition 
Allowed  in  Callao.* 

Jentham  roared  and  ranted  the  fierce  old  chanty  with  as 
much  gusto  and  noise  as  though  he  were  camrjing  in  the 
waste  lands  to  which  the  song  applied,  instead  of  disturbing 
the  peace  of  a  quiet  English  town.  As  his  thin  form  came 
swinging  along  in  the  silver  light,  men  and  women  drew 
bacic  with  looks  of  alarm  to  let  him  pass,  and  Cargrim,  not 
wishing  to  have  trouble  with  the  drunken  bully,  slipped 
into  the  shadow  of  a  house  until  he  passed.  As  usual, 
there  was  no  policeman  visible,  and  Jentham  went  bellow- 
ing and  storming  through  the  quiet  summer  night  like  the 
dissolute  rutfian  he  was.  He  was  making  for  the  country 
in  the  direction  of  the  palace,  and  wondering  if  he  intended 
to  force  his  way  into  the  house  to  threaten  Dr  Pendle,  the 
chaplain  followed  immediately  behind.  But  he  was  careful 
to  keep  out  of  sight,  as  Jentham  was  in  just  the  excited 
frame  of  mind  to  draw  a  knife :  and  Cargrim,  knowing  his 
lawless  nature,  had  little  doubt  but  that  he  had  one  con- 
cealed in  his  boot  or  trouser  belt.  The  delicate  coward 
shivered  at  the  idea  of  a  rough-and-tumble  encounter  with 
an  armed  buccaneer. 

On  went  Jentham,  swinging  his  arms  with  mad  gestures, 
and  followed  by  the  black  shadow  of  the  chaplain,  until  the 
two  were  clear  of  the  town.  Then  the  gipsy  turned  down 
a  shadowy  lane,  cut  through  a  footpath,  and  when  he 
emerged  again  into  the  broad  roadway,  found  himself 
opposite  the  iron  gates  of  the  episcopalian  park.  Here 
he  stopped  singing  and  shook  his  fist  at  them. 

*  Come  out,  you  devil-dodger ! '  he  bellowed  savagely. 
•  Come  out  and  give  me  money,  or  I'll  shame  you  before 


An  Exciting-  Adventure 

the  whole  town,  you  clerical  hypocrite.'  Then  he  took  a 
pull  at  a  pocket-flask. 

Cargrim  listened  eagerly  in  the  hope  of  hearing  some- 
thing definite,  and  Jentham  gathered  himself  together  for 
further  denunciation  of  the  bishop,  when  round  the  comer 
tripped  two  women,  towards  whom  his  drunken  attention 
was  at  once  attracted.  With  a  hoarse  chuckle  he  reeled 
towards  them. 

'Come  along  m'  beauty,'  he  hiccuped,  stretching  out 
his  arms,  •  here's  your  haven.  Wine  and  women  !  1  love 
them  both.' 

The  women  both  shrieked,  and  rushed  along  the  road, 
pursued  by  the  rutfian.  Just  as  he  laid  rude  hands  on  the 
last  one,  a  young  man  came  racing  along  the  footpath  and 
swung  into  the  middle  of  the  road.  The  next  moment 
Jentham  lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  and  the  lady  assaulted 
was  clinging  to  the  arm  of  her  preserver. 

*  Why,  it's  Mab  ! '  said  the  young  man,  in  surprise. 

*  George ! '  cried  Miss  Arden,  and  burst  into  tears.  •  Oh, 
George  ! ' 

*  Curse  you  both  ! '  growled  Jentham,  rising  slowly,  '  I'll 
be  even  with  you  for  that  blow,  my  lad.' 

*  I'll  kick  you  into  the  next  field  if  you  don't  clear  out,' 
retorted  George  Pendle.     '  Did  he  hurt  you,  Mab  ?  ' 

*  No !  no !  but  I  was  afraid.  I  was  at  Mrs  Tears,  and 
was  coming  home  with  Ellen,  when  that  man  jumped  on 
to  us.     Oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! ' 

*  The  villain ! '  cried  Captain  Pendle  ;  '  who  is  he  ? ' 

It  was  at  this  moment  that,  all  danger  being  over,  Cargrim 
judged  it  judicious  to  emerge  from  his  retreat.  He  came 
forward  hurriedly,  as  though  he  had  just  arrived  on  the 
scene. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ? '  he  exclaimed.  *  I  heard  a  scream. 
What,  Captain  Pendle!  Miss  Arden!  This  is  indeed  a 
surprise.' 

'Captain  Pendle!'  cried  Jentham.  'The  son  of  the 
bishop.     Curse  him  ! ' 

George  whirled  his  stick  and  made  a  dash  at  the  creature, 
but  was  restrained  by  Mab,  who  implored  him  not  to 
provoke  further  quarrels. 

George  took  her  arm  within  his  own,  gave  a  curt  nod 

V 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

to  tlic  chaplain,  whom  he  suspected  had  seen  more  ot  the 
ii/Tray  than  he  chose  to  admit,  and  flung  a  word  to  Jentham. 

'Clear  out,  you  dog  !'  he  said,  'or  I'll  hand  you  over  to 
the  polii:e.  Come,  M;il),  yonder  is  Ellen  waiting  for  you. 
We'll  join  her,  and  I  shall  see  you  both  home.' 

Jentham  etnod  looking  after  the  three  figures  with  a 
scowl.  •  You'll  hand  me  over  to  the  police,  George  Pendle, 
will  you  ?'  he  muttered,  loud  enough  for  Cargrim  to  overhear. 
'Take  care  I  don't  do  the  same  thing  to  your  father,'  and 
like  a  noisume  and  dangerous  animal  he  crept  back  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hedge  and  disappeared. 

*  Aha ! '  chuckled  Cargrim,  us  ho  walked  towards  the  park 
pates,  *it  has  to  do  with  the  police,  then,  my  lord  bishop, 
ho  much  the  better  for  me,  so  much  the  worse  for  you.' 


CHAPTER  X 

MORNING   SERVICE   IN   THE   MINSTER 

The  cathedral  is  the  glory  of  Beorminster,  of  the  county, 
and,  indeed,  of  all  England,  since  no  churches  surpass  it 
in  size  and  splendour,  save  the  minsters  of  York  and 
Canterbury.  Founded  and  endowed  by  Henry  II.  in  1184 
for  the  glory  of  God,  it  is  dedicated  to  the  blessed  Saint 
Wulf  of  Osserton,  a  holy  hermit  of  Saxon  times,  who  was 
killed  by  the  heathen  Danes.  Bishop  Gandolf  designed 
the  building  in  the  picturesque  style  of  Anglo-Norman 
architecture;  and  as  the  original  plans  have  been  closely 
adhered  to  by  successive  prelates,  the  vast  fabric  is  the 
finest  example  extant  of  the  Norman  superiority  in  archi- 
tectural science.  It  was  begun  by  Gandolf  in  1185,  and 
finished  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  century;  therefore, 
as  it  took  six  hundred  years  in  building,  every  portion  of 
it  is  executed  in  the  most  perfect  manner.  It  is  renowned 
both  for  its  beauty  and  sanctity,  and  forms  one  of  the  most 
splendid  memorials  of  architectural  art  and  earnest  faith 
to  be  found  even  in  England,  that  land  of  fine  churches. 

The  great  central  tower  rises  to  the  height  of  two  hundred 
feet  in  square  massiveness,  and  from  this  point  springs  a 
slender  and  graceful  spire  to  another  hundred  feet,  so  that 
next  to  Salisbury,  the  great  archetype  of  this  special  class 
of  ecclesiastical  architecture,  it  is  the  tallest  spire  in  England. 
Two  square  towers,  richly  ornamented,  embellish  the  western 
front,  and  beneath  the  great  window  over  the  central 
entrance  is  a  series  of  canopied  arches.  The  church  is 
cniciform  in  shape,  and  is  built  of  Portland  stone,  the 
whole  being  richly  ornamented  with  pinnacles,  buttresses, 
crocketted  spires  and  elaborate  tracery.  Statues  of  saints, 
kings,  queens  and  bishops  are  placed  in  niches  along  the 
northern  and  southern  fronts,  and  the  western  front  itself 

6  n 


The  Bishops  Secret 

is  sculptured  with  scenes  from  Holy  Scripture  in  the  quaint 
grotesque  style  of  mediaeval  art.  No  ivy  is  permitted  to 
conceal  the  beauties  of  the  building ;  and  elevated  in  the 
clear  air,  tar  above  the  smoke  of  the  town,  it  looks  as  fresh 
and  white  and  clean  cut  as  though  it  had  been  erected  only 
within  the  last  few  years.  Spared  by  Henry  VHI.  and  the 
iconoclastic  rage  of  the  Puritans,  Time  alone  has  dealt 
with  it ;  and  Time  has  mellowed  the  whole  to  a  pale  amber 
hue  which  adds  greatly  to  the  beauty  of  the  mighty  fane. 
Beorminster  Cathedral  is  a  poem  in  stone. 

Within,  the  nave  and  transepts  are  lofty  and  imposing, 
with  innumerable  arches  springing  from  massive  marble 
pillars.  The  rood  screen  is  ornate,  with  figures  of  saints 
and  patriarchs ;  the  pavement  is  diversified  with  brasses 
and  carved  marble  slabs,  and  several  Crusaders'  tombs 
adorn  the  side  chapels.  The  many  windows  are  mostly 
of  stained  glass,  since  these  were  not  destroyed  by 
the  Puritans;  and  when  the  sun  shines  on  a  summer's 
day  the  twilight  interior  is  dyed  with  rich  hues  and  quaint 
patterns.  As  the  Bishop  of  Beorminster  is  a  High  Church- 
man the  altar  is  magnificently  decorated,  and  during  service, 
what  with  the  light  and  colour  and  brilliancy,  the  vast 
building  seems — unlike  the  dead  aspect  of  many  of  its 
kind — to  be  filled  with  life  and  movement  and  living  faith. 
A  Romanist  might  well  imagine  that  he  was  attending  one 
of  the  magnificent  and  imposing  services  of  his  own  faith, 
save  that  the  uttered  words  are  spoken  in  the  mother 
tongue. 

As  became  a  city  whose  whole  existence  depended  upon 
the  central  shrine,  the  services  at  the  cathedral  were  in- 
variably well  attended.  The  preaching  attracted  some,  the 
fine  music  many,  and  the  imposing  ritual  introduced  by 
Bishop  Pendle  went  a  great  way  towards  bringing  wor- 
shippers to  the  altar.  A  cold,  frigid,  undecoraled  service, 
appealing  more  to  the  intellect  than  the  senses,  would  not 
have  drawn  together  so  vast  and  attentive  a  congregation  ; 
but  the  warmth  and  colour  and  musical  fervour  of  the  new 
ritual  lured  the  most  careless  within  the  walls  of  the  sacred 
building.  Bishop  Pendle  was  right  in  his  estimate  of 
human  nature;  for  when  the  senses  are  enthralled  by 
colour  and  sound,  and  vast  spaces,  and  symbolic  decorations 

74 


Morning  Service  in  the  Minster 

the  reverential  feeling  thus  engendered  prepares  the  mind 
for  the  reception  of  the  sublime  truths  of  Christianity.  A 
pure  faith  and  a  gorgeous  ritual  are  not  so  incompatible  as 
many  people  think.  God  should  be  worshipped  with  pomp 
and  splendour ;  we  should  bring  to  His  service  all  that  we 
can  invent  in  the  way  of  art  and  beauty.  If  God  has  pre- 
pared for  those  who  believe  the  splendid  habitation  of  the 
New  Jerusalem  with  its  gates  of  pearl  and  its  streets  of 
gold,  why  should  we,  His  creatures,  stint  our  gifts  in  His 
service,  and  debar  the  beautiful  things,  which  He  inspires 
us  to  create  with  brain  and  hand,  from  use  in  His  holy 
temple  ?  *  Out  of  the  fulness  of  the  heart  the  mouth 
speaketh,'  and  out  of  the  fulness  of  the  hand  the  giver 
should  give.  *  Date  et  dabitur ! '  The  great  Luther  was  right 
in  applying  this  saying  to  the  church. 

One  of  the  congregation  at  St  Wulf  s  on  this  particular 
morning  was  Captain  George  Pendle,  and  he  came  less  for 
the  service  than  in  the  hope — after  the  manner  of  those  in 
love — of  meeting  with  Mab  Arden.  During  the  reading  of 
the  lessons  his  eyes  were  roving  here  and  there  in  search  of 
that  beloved  face,  but  much  to  his  dismay  he  could  not  see 
it.  Finally,  on  a  chair  near  a  pillar,  he  caught  sight  of  Miss 
Whichello  in  her  poke  bonnet  and  black  silk  cloak,  but  she 
was  alone,  and  there  were  no  bright  eyes  beside  her  to 
send  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  George.  Having  ascer- 
tained beyond  all  doubt  that  Mab  was  not  in  the  church, 
and  believing  that  she  was  unwell  after  the  shock  of 
Jentham's  attack  on  the  previous  night,  George  withdrew 
his  attention  from  the  congregation,  and  settled  himself  to 
listen  attentively  to  the  anthem.  It  was  worthy  of  the 
cathedral,  and  higher  praise  cannot  be  given.  'I  have 
blotted  out  as  a  thick  cloud,'  sang  the  boy  soloist  in  a  clear 
sweet  treble,  *  I  have  blotted  out  thy  transgressions,  and  as 
a  cloud  thy  sins.'  Then  came  the  triumphant  cry  of  the 
choir,  borne  on  the  rich  waves  of  sound  rolling  from  the 
organ,  *  Return  unto  me,  for  I  have  redeemed  thee.'  The 
lofty  roof  reverberated  with  the  melodious  thunder,  and 
the  silvery  altoes  pierced  through  the  great  volume  of 
sound  like  arrows  of  song.  '  Return  !  Return  !  Return  ! ' 
called  the  choristers  louder  and  higher  and  clearer,  and 
ended,  with  a  magnificent  burst  of  harmony,  with  the  sub- 

75 


The  Bishops  Secret 

lime  {)roclai nation,  'The  Lord  hath  icdcemed  Jacob,  and 
gliirilkd  himself  in  Israel ! '  When  the  while-robed  singers 
resunud  their  seats,  the  organ  still  coiiiinued  to  peal  forth 
triiimi^hant  notes,  which  died  away  in  gentle  murmurs.  It 
was  like  the  passing  by  of  a  tempest ;  the  stilling  of  the 
ocean  after  a  storm. 

Mr  Cargrim  preached  the  sermon,  and,  with  a  vivid 
recollection  of  liis  present  enterprise,  waxed  eloquent  on  the 
ominous  text,  'Be  sure  thy  sin  will  find  thee  out.'  His 
belief  that  the  bishop  was  guilty  of  some  crime,  for  the  con- 
cealment of  which  he  intended  to  bribe  Jentham,  had  been 
strengthened  by  an  examination  on  that  very  morning  of 
the  cheque-book.  Dr  Pendle  hid  departed  on  horseback 
tor  Southbcrry  after  an  early  breakfast,  and  after  hurriedly 
despatching  his  own,  Cargrim  had  hastened  to  the  library. 
Here,  as  he  expected,  he  found  the  cheque-book  carelessly 
left  in  an  unlocked  drawer  of  the  desk,  and  on  looking 
over  it  he  found  that  one  of  the  butts  had  been  torn  out 
The  previous  butt  bore  a  date  immediately  preceding  that 
of  Dr  Pendle's  departure  for  London,  so  Cargrim  had  little 
difficulty  in  concluding  that  the  bishop  had  drawn  the  next 
cheque  in  London,  and  had  torn  out  the  butt  to  which  it 
had  been  attached.  This  showed,  as  the  chaplain  very 
truly  thought,  that  Dr  Pendle  was  desirous  of  concealing 
not  only  the  amount  of  the  cheque — since  he  had  kept  no 
note  of  the  sum  on  the  butt — but  of  hiding  the  fact  that  the 
cheque  had  been  drawn  at  all.  This  conduct,  coupled 
with  the  fact  of  Jentham's  allusion  to  Tom  Tiddler's 
ground,  and  his  snatch  of  extempore  song,  confirmed 
Cargrim  in  his  suspicions  that  Pendle  had  visited  London 
for  the  purpose  of  drawing  out  a  large  sum  of  money,  and 
intended  to  pay  the  same  over  to  Jentham  that  very  night 
on  Southberry  Heath.  With  this  in  his  mind  it  was  no 
wonder  that  Cargrim  preached  a  stirring  sermon.  He  re- 
peated his  warning  text  over  and  over  again  ;  he  illustrated 
it  in  the  most  brilliant  fashion  ;  and  his  appeals  to  those 
who  had  secret  sins,  to  confess  them  at  once,  were  quite 
heartrending  in  their  pathos.  As  most  of  his  congrega- 
tion had  their  own  little  peccadilloes  to  worry  over,  Mr 
Cargrim's  sermon  made  them  quite  uneasy,  and  created  a 
decided   sensation,    much    to    his    own    gratification.     If 

76 


Morning  Service  in  the  Minster 

Bishop  Pendle  had  only  been  seated  on  his  throne  to  hear 
that  sermon,  Cargrim  would  have  been  thoroughly  satisfied. 
But,  alas  !  the  bishop — worthy  man — was  confirming  inno- 
cent sinners  at  Southberry,  and  thus  lost  any  chance  he 
might  have  had  of  profiting  by  his  chaplain's  eloquence. 

However,  the  congregation  could  not  be  supposed  to 
know  the  secret  source  of  the  chaplain's  eloquence,  and 
his  withering  denunciations  were  supposed  to  arise  from  a 
consciousness  of  his  own  pure  and  open  heart.  The  female 
admirers  of  Cargrim  particularly  dwelt  in  after-church 
gossip  on  this  presumed  cause  of  the  excellent  sermon  they 
had  heard,  and  when  the  preacher  appeared  he  was  con- 
gratulated on  all  sides.  Miss  Tancred  for  once  forgot  her 
purse  story,  and  absolutely  squeaked,  in  the  highest  of 
keys,  in  her  efforts  to  make  the  young  man  understand  the 
amounr  of  pleasure  he  had  given  her.  Even  Mrs  Pansey 
was  pleased  to  express  her  approval  of  so  well  chosen  a  text, 
and  looked  significantly  at  several  of  her  friends  as  she 
remarked  that  she  hoped  they  would  take  its  warning  to 
heart. 

George  came  upon  his  father's  chaplain,  grinning  like  a 
heathen  idol,  in  the  midst  of  a  tempestuous  ocean  of 
petticoats,  and  the  bland  way  in  which  he  sniffed  up  the 
incense  of  praise  showed  how  grateful  such  homage  was  to 
his  vain  nature.  At  that  moment  he  saw  himself  a  future 
bishop,  and  that  at  no  very  great  distance  of  time.  In- 
deed, had  the  election  of  such  a  prelate  been  in  the  hands 
of  his  admirers,  he  would  have  been  elevated  that  very 
moment  to  the  nearest  vacant  episcopalian  throne.  Captain 
Pendle  looked  on  contemptuously  at  this  priest-worship. 

'The  sneaking  cad!'  he  thought,  sneering  at  the  excellent 
Cargrim.  'I  dare  say  he  thinks  he  is  the  greatest  man  in 
Beorminster  just  now.  He  looks  as  though  butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  his  mouth.' 

There  was  no  love  lost  between  the  chaplain  and  the 
captain,  for  on  several  occasions  the  latter  had  found 
Cirgrim  a  slippery  customer,  and  lax  in  his  notions  of 
honour ;  while  the  curate,  knowing  that  he  had  not  been 
clever  enough  to  hoodwink  George,  hated  him  with  all  the 
fervour  and  malice  of  his  petty  soul.  However,  he  hoped 
soon  to  have  the  power  to  wound  Captain  Pendle  through 

7? 


The  Bishops  Secret 

his  father,  so  he  could  afford  to  smile  blandly  in  response 
to  the  young  soldier's  contein[)tuous  look.  And  he  smiled 
more  than  ever  when  brisk  J^Iiss  Whichello,  with  her  small 
face,  ruddy  as  a  winier  apple,  marched  up  and  joined  in  the 
congratulations. 

'  In  future  I  shall  call  you  Boanerges,  Mr  Cargrim,*  she 
cried,  her  bright  little  eyes  dancing.  •  You  quite  frightened 
nie.  I  looked  into  my  mind  to  see  what  sins  I  had 
committed.' 

*  And  found  none,  I'm  suie,'  said  the  courtly  chaplain. 

*  You  would  have  found  one  if  you  had  looked  long 
enough,'  growled  Mrs  Pansey,  who  hated  the  old  maid  as 
a  rival  practitioner  amongst  the  poor,  *  and  that  is,  you  did 
not  bring  your  niece  to  hear  the  sermon.  I  don't  call  such 
carelessness  Christianity.' 

'  Don't  look  at  my  sins  through  a  microscope,  Mrs  Pansey. 
I  did  not  bring  Mab  because  she  is  not  well.' 

*  Oh,  really,  dear  Miss  Winchello,'  chimed  in  Daisy  Nors- 
ham.  *  Why,  I  thought  that  your  sweet  niece  looked  the 
very  picture  of  health.  All  those  strong,  tall  women  do; 
not  like  poor  little  me.' 

*  You  need  dieting,'  retorted  Miss  Whichello,  with  a  dis- 
paraging glance.  'Your  face  is  pale  and  pasty;  if  it  isn't 
powder,  it's  bad  digestion,' 

*  Miss  Whichello  I  *  cried  the  outraged  spinster. 

*  I'm  an  old  woman,  my  dear,  and  you  must  allow  me  to 
speak  my  mind.     I'm  sure  Mrs  Pansey  always  does.' 

*  You  need  not  be  so  ver)'  unpleasant !     No,  really ! ' 

*  The  truth  is  always  unpleasant,'  snid  Mrs  Pansey,  who 
could  not  forbear  a  thrust  even  at  her  own  guest,  '  but  Miss 
Whichello  doesn't  often  hear  it,'  with  a  dig  at  her  rival. 
•  Come  away,  Daisy.  Mr  Cargrim,  next  time  you  preach 
take  for  your  text,  "  The  tongue  is  a  two-edged  sword." ' 

'  Do,  Mr  Cargrim,'  cried  Miss  Whichello,  darting  an 
angry  glance  at  Mrs  Pansey,  'and  illustrate  it  with  the  one 
to  whom  it  particularly  applies.' 

'  Ladies  !  ladies ! '  remonstrated  Cargrim,  while  both 
combatants  ruffled  their  plumes  like  two  fighting  cocks, 
and  the  more  timid  of  the  spectators  scuttled  out  of  the 
way.  How  the  situation  would  have  ended  it  is  impossible 
to  say,  as  the  two  ladies  were  ccjually  matched,  but  George 

7« 


Morning  Service  in  the  Minster 

saved  it  by  advancing  to  greet  Miss  Whichello.  When  the 
little  woman  saw  him,  she  darted  forward  and  shook  his 
hand  with  unfeigned  warmth. 

'  My  dear  Captain  Pendle,'  she  cried,  '  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you ;  and  thank  you  for  your  noble  conduct  of  last 
night.' 

'  Why,  Miss  Whichello,  it  was  nothing,'  murmured  the 
modest  hero. 

'  Indeed,  I  must  say  it  was  very  valiant,'  said  Cargrim, 
graciously.  '  Do  you  know,  ladies,  that  Miss  Arden  was 
attacked  last  night  by  a  tramp  and  Captain  Pendle  knocked 
him  down ? ' 

*  Oh,  really !  how  very  sweet ! '  cried  Daisy,  casting  an 
admiring  look  on  George's  handsome  face,  which  appealed 
to  her  appreciation  of  manly  beauty. 

'  What  was  Miss  Arden  doing  to  place  herself  in  the  posi- 
tion of  being  attacked  by  a  tramp?'  asked  Mrs  Pansey,  in 
a  hard  voice.     '  Tiiis  must  be  looked  into.' 

'  Thank  you,  Mrs  Pansey,  I  have  looked  into  it  myself,' 
said  Miss  Whichello.  '  Captain  Pendle,  come  home  with 
me  to  luncheon  and  tell  me  all  about  it ;  ^Ir  Cargrim,  you 
come  also.' 

Both  gentlemen  bowed  and  accepted,  the  former  because 
he  wished  to  see  Mab,  the  latter  because  he  knew  that 
Captain  Pendle  did  not  want  him  to  come.  As  Miss 
Whichello  moved  off  wiih  her  two  guests,  Mrs  Pansey  ex- 
claimed in  a  loud  voice, — 

'  Poor  young  men  !  Luncheon  indeed  !  They  will  be 
starved.  I  know  for  a  fact  that  she  weighs  out  the  food 
in  scales.'  Then,  having  had  the  last  word,  she  went  home 
in  triumph. 


79 


CHAPTER  XI 

MISS   WHICHELLO'S   LUNCHEON-PARTY 

The  liitle  lady  trotted  briskly  across  the  square,  and  guided 
her  guests  to  a  quaint  old  house  squeezed  into  one  corner 
of  it.  Here  slie  had  been  born  some  sixty  odd  years  before ; 
here  she  had  lived  her  life  of  spinsterhood,  save  for  an  occa- 
sional visit  to  London  ;  and  here  she  hoped  to  die,  allhough 
at  present  she  kept  Death  at  a  safe  distance  by  hygienic 
means  and  dietary  treatment.  The  house  was  a  (jueer 
survival  of  three  centuries,  with  a  pattern  of  black  oak 
beams  let  into  a  white-washed  front.  Its  roof  shot  up  into 
a  high  gable  at  an  acute  angle,  and  was  tiled  with  red  clay 
squares,  mellowed  by  Time  to  the  hue  of  rusty  iron.  A 
long  lattice  with  diamond  panes,  and  geraniums  in  flower- 
pots behind  them,  extended  across  the  lower  storey;  two 
little  jutting  windows,  also  of  the  criss-cross  pattern,  looked 
like  two  eyes  in  the  second  storey;  and  high  up  in  the 
third,  the  casement  of  the  attic  peered  out  coyly  from  under 
the  eaves.  At  the  top  of  a  flight  of  immaculately  white 
steps  there  was  a  squat  little  door  painted  green  and 
adorned  with  a  brass  knocker  burnished  to  the  colour  of 
fine  gold.  '^I'he  railings  of  iron  round  the  area  were  also 
coloured  green,  and  the  appearance  of  the  whole  exterior 
was  as  spotless  and  neat  as  Miss  Whichello  herself.  It 
was  an  ideal  house  for  a  dainty  old  spinster  such  as  she 
was,  and  rested  in  the-  very  shadow  of  the  Bishop  Gandolfs 
cathedral  like  the  nest  of  a  bright-eyed  wren. 

'  Mab,  my  dear ! '  cried  the  wren  herself,  as  she  led  the 
gentlemen  into  the  drawing-room,  '  I  have  brought  Captain 
Pendle  and  Mr  Cargrim  to  luncheon.' 

Mab  arose  out  of  a  deep  chair  and  laid  aside  the  book 
she  was  reading.      *  I  saw  you  crossing  the  square,  Captain 

to 


Miss  Whichellds  Luncheon- Parly 

Pendle,'  she  said,  shaking  his  hand.  '  Mr  Cargrim,  I  am 
glad  to  see  you,' 

'  Are  you  not  glad  to  see  me  ? '  whispered  George,  in 
low  tones. 

'  Do  you  need  me  to  tell  you  so  ? '  was  Mab's  reply,  with 
a  smile,  and  that  smile  answered  his  question. 

'  Oh,  my  dear,  such  a  heavenly  sermon ! '  cried  Miss 
Whichello,  fluttering  about  the  room ;  *  it  went  to  my  very 
heart.' 

'  It  could  not  have  gone  to  a  better  place,'  replied  the 
chaplain,  in  the  gentle  voice  which  George  particularly  de- 
tested. '  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  have  suffered  from  your 
alarm  last  night,  Miss  Arden.' 

'  My  nerves  received  rather  a  shock,  Mr  Cargrim,  and  I 
had  such  a  bad  headache  that  I  decided  to  remain  at  home. 
I  must  receive  your  sermon  second-hand  from  my  aunt.' 

*Why  not  first-hand  from  me?'  said  Cargrim,  insinu- 
atingly, whereupon  Captain  George  pulled  his  moustache 
and  looked  savage. 

•Oh,  I  won't  tax  your  good  nature  so  far,'  rejoined  Mab, 
laughing.  'What  is  it,  aunty?'  for  the  wren  was  still 
fluttering  and  restless. 

'  My  dear,  you  must  content  yourself  with  Captain  Pendle 
till  luncheon,  for  I  want  Mr  Cargrim  to  come  into  the 
garden  and  see  my  fig  tree ;  real  figs  grow  on  it,  Mr 
Cargrim,'  said  Miss  Whichello,  solemnly,  '  the  very  first  figs 
that  have  ever  ripened  in  Beorminster.' 

'I  am  glad  it  is  not  a  barren  fig  tree,'  said  Cargrim, 
introducing  a  scriptural  allusion  in  his  most  clerical  manner. 

'  Barren  indeed !  it  has  five  figs  on  it.  Really,  sitting 
under  its  shade  one  would  fancy  one  was  in  Palestine.  Do 
come,  Mr  Cargrim,'  and  Miss  Whichello  fluttered  through 
the  door  like  an  escaping  bird. 

'With  pleasure;  the  more  so,  as  I  know  we  shall  not  be 
missed.' 

*  Damn ! '  muttered  Captain  Pendle,  when  the  door 
closed  on  Cargrim's  smile  and  insinuating  looks. 

*  Captain  Pendle !  *  exclaimed  Miss  Arden,  becomingly 
shocked. 

*  Captain  Pendle  indeed ! '  said  the  young  man,  shpping 
his  arm  round  Mab ;  '  and  why  not  George  ? ' 

F  8i 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'I  thought  Mr  Cargrim  might  hear.' 

'  He  ought  to  ;  hke  the  ass,  his  ea::  are  long  enough.' 

'Still,  he  is  anything  but  an  ass — George.' 

'  If  he  isn't  an  ass  he's  a  beast,'  rejoined  I'endle,  promptly, 
'and  it  comes  to  much  the  same  thing.' 

'  Well,  you  need  not  swear  at  him.' 

'  If  I  didn't  swear  I'd  kick  him,  Mab ;  and  think  of  the 
scandal  to  the  Church.  Cargrim's  a  sneaking,  time  serving 
sycophant.     I  wonder  my  father  can  endure  him  ;  I  can't  I' 

'I  don't  like  him  myself,'  confessed  Mab,  as  they  seated 
themselves  in  the  window-seat. 

'  I  should — think — not ! '  cried  Captain  George,  in  so 
deliberate  and  disgusted  a  tone  that  Mab  laughed.  Whereat 
he  kissed  her  and  was  reproved,  so  that  both  betook  them- 
selves to  argument  as  to  the  righteousness  or  unrighteous- 
ness of  kissing  on  a  Sunday. 

George  Pendle  was  a  tall,  slim,  and  very  good-looking 
young  man  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  He  was  as  fair  as 
Mab  was  dark,  with  bright  blue  eyes  and  a  bronzed  skin, 
against  which  his  smartly-pointed  moustache  appeared  by 
contrast  almost  white.  With  his  upright  figure,  his  alert 
military  air,  and  merry  smile,  he  looked  an  extremely  hand- 
some and  desirable  lover;  and  so  Mab  thought,  although 
she  reproved  him  with  orthodox  modesty  for  snatching  a 
kiss  unasked.  But  if  men  had  to  request  favours  of  this 
sort,  there  would  not  be  much  kissing  in  the  world.  More- 
over, stolen  kisses,  like  stolen  fruit,  have  a  piquant  flavour 
of  their  own. 

The  quaint  old  drawing-room,  with  its  low  ceiling  and 
twilight  atmosphere,  was  certainly  an  ideal  place  for  love- 
making.  It  was  furnished  with  chairs,  and  tables,  and 
couches,  which  had  done  duty  in  the  days  of  Miss  Which- 
ello's  grandparents;  and  if  the  carpet  was  old,  so  much 
the  better,  for  its  once  brilliant  tints  had  faded  into  soft 
hues  more  restful  to  the  eye.  In  one  corner  stood  the 
grandfather  of  all  pianos,  with  a  front  of  dravn  green  silk 
fluted  to  a  central  button  ;  beside  it  a  prim  canterbury, 
filled  with  primly-bound  books  of  yellow-pa^ed  music,  con- 
taining, 'The  B.ittle  of  the  Prague,'  'The  Maiden's  Prayer,' 
'Cheny  Ripe,' and  'The  Canary  Bird's  Quadrilles.*  Such 
tinkling  melodies  had  been  the  delight  of  Miss  Whichello's 

8j 


Miss  Whichello  s  Luncheon- Party 

youth,  and — as  she  had  a  fine  finger  for  the  piano  (her 
own  observation) — she  sometimes  tinkled  them  now  on 
the  jingling  old  piano  when  old  friends  came  to  see  her. 
Also  there  were  Chippendale  cupboards  with  glass  doors, 
filled  with  a  most  wonderful  collection  of  old  china — 
older  even  than  their  owner ;  Chinese  jars  heaped  up  with 
dried  rose  leaves  spreading  around  a  perfume  of  dead 
summers ;  bright  silken  screens  from  far  Japan  ;  fcot-stools 
and  fender-stools  worked  in  worsted  which  tripped  up  the 
unwary ;  and  a  number  of  oil-paintings  valuable  rather  for 
age  than  beauty.  None  of  your  modern  flimsy  drawing- 
rooms  was  Miss  Whichello's,  but  a  dear,  delightful,  cosy 
room  full  of  faded  splendours  and  relics  of  the  dead  and 
gone  so  dearly  beloved.  From  the  yellow  silk  fire-screen 
swinging  on  a  rosewood  pole,  to  the  drowsy  old  canary 
chirping  feebly  in  his  brass  cage  at  the  window,  all  was  old- 
world  and  marvellously  proper  and  genteel.  Withal,  a 
quiet,  perfumed  room,  delightful  to  make  love  in,  to  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  as  Captain  George 
Pendle  knew  very  well. 

'Though  it  really  isn't  proper  for  you  to  kiss  me,'  ob- 
served Mab,  folding  her  slender  hands  on  her  white  gown. 
*You  know  we  are  not  engaged.' 

*I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,  my  dearest  prude.  You  are 
the  only  woman  I  ever  intend  to  marry.  Have  you  any 
objections  ?     If  so,  I  should  like  to  hear  them.' 

*  I  am  two  years  older  than  you,  George.' 

*  A  man  is  as  old  as  he  looks,  a  woman  as  she  feels.  I 
am  quite  convinced.  Miss  Arden,  that  you  feel  nineteen 
years  of  age,  so  the  disparity  rests  rather  on  my  shoulders 
than  on  yours.' 

'  You  don't  look  old,'  laughed  Mab,  letting  her  hand  lie 
in  that  of  her  lover's. 

•But  I  feel  old — old  enough  to  marry  you,  my  dear. 
What  is  your  next  objection  ?  * 

•Your  father  does  not  know  that  you  love  me.* 

'  My  mother  does ;  Lucy  does  ;  and  with  two  women  to 
persuade  him,  my  dear,  kind  old  father  will  gladly  consent 
to  the  match.' 

*  I  have  no  money.' 

•My  dearest,  neither  have  I.    Two  negatives  make  an 

83 


The  Bishops  Secret 

affiimative,  and  that  affirmative  is  to  be  ultertJ  by  you 
when  1  ask  if  I  may  tell  the  bishop  that  you  are  willing  to 
became  a  soldier's  wife.' 

'  Oh,  George  ! '  cried  Mab,  anxiously,  *  it  is  a  very  serious 
matter.  You  know  how  paiticuhr  your  father  is  about 
birth  and  family.  My  parents  are  dead;  I  never  knew 
them  ;  for  my  father  died  before  I  was  born,  and  my  mother 
followed  him  to  the  grave  when  I  was  a  year  old.  If  my 
dear  mother's  sif^ter  had  not  taktn  charge  of  me  and  brought 
me  up,  I  should  very  likely  have  ,L;one  on  the  parish ;  for — 
as  aunty  says — my  parents  were  paupers.' 

•  My  lovely  pauper,  what  is  all  this  to  me  ?  Here  is  your 
answer  to  all  the  nonsense  you  have  been  talking,'  and 
George,  with  the  proverbial  boldness  of  a  soldier,  laid  a 
fond  kiss  on  the  charming  face  so  near  to  his  own. 

'Oh,  George!'  began  the  scandalised  Mab,  for  the  fifth 
time  at  least,  and  was  about  to  reprove  her  audacious 
lover  again,  when  Miss  Whichello  bustled  into  the  room, 
followed  by  the  black  shadow  of  the  parson.  George  and 
Mab  sprang  apart  with  alacrity,  and  each  wondered,  while 
admiring  the  cathedral  opposite,  if  Miss  Whichello  or  Car- 
grim  had  heard  the  sound  of  that  stolen  kiss.  Apparently 
the  dear,  unsuspecting  old  Jenny  Wren  had  not,  for  she 
hopped  up  to  the  pair  in  her  bird-like  fashion,  and  took 
George's  arm. 

'Come,  good  people,*  she  said  briskly,  'luncheon  is 
ready;  and  so  are  your  appetites,  I've  no  doubt.  Mr 
Cargrim,  take  in  my  niece.' 

In  five  minutes  the  quartette  were  seated  round  a  small 
table  in  Miss  Whichello's  small  dining-room.  The  apart- 
ment was  filled  with  oak  furniture  black  with  age  and 
wondrously  carved ;  the  curtains  and  carpet  and  cushions 
were  of  faded  crimson  rep,  and  as  the  gaily-striped  sun- 
blinds  were  down,  the  whole  was  enwrapped  in  a  sober  brown 
atmosphere  restful  to  the  eye  and  cool  to  the  skin.  The 
oval  table  was  covered  with  a  snow-white  cloth,  on  which 
sparkled  silver  and  crystal  round  a  Nankin  porcelain  bowl 
of  blue  and  white  filled  with  deep  red  roses.  The  dinner- 
plates  were  of  thin  china,  painted  with  sprawling  dragons 
in  yellow  and  green;  the  food,  in  spite  of  Mrs  Pansey's report, 
was   plentiful  and  dainty,  and  the  wines  came   from  the 


Miss  Whichelld s  Luncheon- Party 

stock  laid  down  by  the  father  of  the  hostess  in  the  days 
when  dignitaries  of  the  Church  knew  what  good  wine  was. 
It  is  true  that  a  neat  pair  of  brass  scales  was  placed  beside 
Miss  Whichello,  but  she  used  them  to  weigh  out  such 
portions  of  food  as  she  judged  to  be  needful  for  herself, 
and  did  not  mar  her  hospitality  by  interfering  with  the 
appetites  of  her  guests.  The  repast  was  tempting,  the 
company  congenial,  and  the  two  young  men  enjoyed  them- 
selves greatly.  Miss  Whichello  was  an  entertainer  worth 
knowing,  if  only  for  her  cook. 

*Mab,  my  dear,'  cried  the  lively  old  lady,  *I  am  ashamed 
of  your  appetita  Don't  you  feel  better  for  your  morning's 
rest?' 

*  Much  better,  thank  you,  aunty,  but  it  is  too  hot  to  eat.' 
'Try  some  salad,  my  love;   it  is  cool   and  green,  and 

excellent  for  the  blood.  If  I  had  my  way,  people  should 
eat  more  green  stuff  than  they  do.' 

'  Like  so  many  Nebachadnczzars,'  suggested  Cargrim, 
always  scriptural. 

'Well,  some  kinds  of  grass  are  edible,  you  know,  Mr 
Cargrim  ;  although  we  need  not  go  on  all  fours  to  eat  them 
as  he  did.' 

'  So  tnany  people  would  need  to  revert  to  their  natural 
characters  of  animals  if  that  custom  came  in,'  said  George, 
smiling. 

*  A  certain  great  poet  remarked  that  everyone  had  a  por- 
tion of  the  nature  of  some  animal,'  observed  Cargrim, 
•  especially  women.* 

'Then  Mrs  Pansey  is  a  magpie,'  cried  Mab,  with  an  arch 
\ook  at  her  aunt. 

*  She  is  a  magpie,  and  a  fox,  and  a  laughing  hyasna,  my 
dear.' 

*  Oh,  aunty,  what  a  trinity  ! ' 

*I  suppose,  Cargrim,  all  you  black-coated  parsons  are 
rooks,'  said  George. 

*  No  doubt,  captain  ;  and  you  soldiers  are  lions.' 
'  Aunty  is  a  Jenny  Wren  ! ' 

*  And  Mab  is  a  white  peacock,*  said  Miss  Whichello,  with 
s  nod. 

*  Captain  Pendle,  protect  me,'  laughed  Miss  Arden.  *  I 
decline  to  be  called  a  peacock.' 

«5 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

•You  are  a  golden  bird  of  paradise,  Miss  Arden.* 

'Ah,  that  IS  a  pretty  compliment,  Captain  Pendle. 
Thank  you  !' 

While  George  laughed,  Cargrim,  rather  tired  of  these 
zoological  comparisons,  strove  to  change  the  subject  by  an 
allusion  to  the  adventure  of  the  previous  night.  'The  man 
who  attacked  you  was  certainly  a  wolf,'  he  said  decisively. 

'Who  was  the  man?'  asked  Ivliss  Whichello,  carefully 
weighing  herself  some  cheese. 

'  Some  tramp  who  had  been  in  the  wars,'  replied  George, 
carelessly;  *a  discharged  soldier,  I  daresay.  At  least,  he 
had  a  long  red  scar  on  his  villainous-looking  face.  I  saw 
it  in  the  moonlight,  marking  him  as  with  the  brand  of  Cain.' 

*  A  scar  ! '  repeated  Miss  Whichello,  in  so  altered  a  tone 
that  Cargrim  stared  at  her,  and  hastened  to  explain  further, 
so  as  to  learn,  if  possible,  the  meaning  of  her  strange 
look. 

*  A  scar  on  the  right  cheek,'  he  said  slowly,  '  from  the  ear 
to  the  mouth.' 

*  What  kind  of  a  looking  man  is  he?'  asked  the  old  lady, 
pushing  away  her  plate  with  a  nervous  gesture. 

'  Something  like  a  gipsy — lean,  tall  and  swarthy,  with  jet- 
black  eyes  and  an  evil  expre.'jsion.  He  talks  like  an  educated 
person.' 

'  You  seem  to  know  all  about  him,  Cargrim,'  said  Captain 
Pendle,  in  some  surprise,  while  Miss  Whichello,  her  rosy 
face  pale  and  scared,  sat  silently  staring  at  the  tablecloth. 

'  I  have  several  times  been  to  an  hotel  called  The  Derby 
Winner,'  explained  the  chaplain,  *  to  see  a  sick  W(  .man ; 
and  there  I  came  across  this  scamp  several  times.  He 
stays  there,  I  believe  ! ' 

'  What  is  his  name?'  asked  Miss  Whichello,  hoarsely. 

'Jentham,  I  have  been  informed.' 

'  Jentham  !     I  don't  know  the  name.' 

'  I  don't  suppose  you  know  the  man  either,  aunty?' 

'No,  my  love,'  replied  Miss  Whichello,  in  a  low  voice. 
'  I  don't  suppose  I  know  the  man  either.  Is  he  still  at 
The  Derby  Winner,  Mr  Cargrim?' 

'  I  believe  so ;  he  portions  his  time  between  that  hotel 
and  a  gipsy  camp  on  Southberry  Common.* 

'What  is  he  doing  here?' 

B6 


Miss  Whichellds  Luncheon-Party 

'  Really,  my  dear  lady,  I  do  not  know.' 
'  Aunty,  one  would  think  you  knew  the  man,'  said  Mab, 
amazed  at  her  aunt's  emotion. 

*  No,  Mab,  I  do  not,'  said  Miss  Whichello,  vehemently ; 
more  so  than  the  remark  warranted.  '  But  if  he  attacks 
people  on  the  high  road  he  should  certainly  be  shut  up.  Well, 
good  people,'  she  added,  with  an  attempt  at  her  former 
lively  manner,  'if  you  are  finished  we  will  return  to  the 
drawing-room.' 

All  attempts  to  restore  the  earlier  harmony  of  the  visit 
failed,  for  the  conversation  languished  and  Miss  Whichello 
was  silent  and  distraught.  The  young  men  shortly  took 
their  leave,  and  the  old  lady  seemed  glad  to  be  rid  of 
them.  Outside,  George  and  Cargrim  separated,  as  neither 
was  anxious  for  the  other's  company.  As  the  chaplain 
walked  to  the  palace  he  reflected  on  the  strange  conduct 
of  Miss  Whichello. 

*  She  knows  something  about  Jentham,'  he  thought.  '  I 
wonder  if  she  has  a  secret  also.' 


CHAPTER    XII 

BELL    MOSK    PAYS    A    VISIT 

Although  the  palace  was  so  near  Beorminster,  and  the 
sphere  of  Gabriel's  labours  lay  in  ihe  vicinity  of  the  cathe- 
dral, Bishop  Pendle  did  not  judge  it  wise  that  his  youngest 
son  should  dwell  beneath  the  paternal  roof  To  teach  him 
independence,  to  strengthen  his  will  and  character,  and 
because  he  considered  that  a  clergyman  should,  to  a  certain 
extent,  share  the  lot  of  those  amongst  whom  he  laboured, 
the  bishop  arranged  that  Gabriel  should  inhabit  lodgings 
in  the  old  town,  not  far  from  The  Derby  Winner.  It  was 
by  reason  of  this  contiguity  that  Gabriel  became  acquainted 
with  the  handsome  barmaid  of  the  hotel,  and  as  he  was  a 
more  weak-natured  man  than  his  father  dreamed  of,  it  soon 
came  about  that  he  fell  in  love  with  the  girl.  Matters 
between  them  had  gone  much  further  than  even  Cargrim 
with  all  his  suspicions  guessed,  for  in  the  skilful  hands  of 
Miss  Mosk  the  curate  was  as  clay,  and  for  some  time 
he  had  been  engaged  to  his  charmer.  No  one  knew  this, 
not  even  Mrs  Mosk,  for  the  fair  Bell  was  quite  capable  of 
keeping  a  secret ;  but  Gabriel  was  firmly  bound  to  her  by 
honour,  and  Bell  possessed  a  ring,  which  she  kept  in  the 
drawer  of  her  looking-glass  and  wore  in  secret,  as  symbolic 
of  an  engagement  she  did  not  dare  to  reveal. 

On  Sunday  evening  she  arrayed  herself  in  her  best  gar- 
ments, and  putting  on  this  ring,  told  her  mother  that  she 
was  going  to  church.  At  first  Mrs  Mosk  feebly  objected, 
as  her  husband  was  away  in  Southberry  and  would  not  be 
bai-k  all  night ;  but  as  Bell  declared  that  she  wanted  some 
amusement  after  working  hard  at  pulling  beer  all  the  week, 
Mrs  Mosk  gave  way.  She  did  not  approve  of  Bell's  men 
tion  of  evening  service  as  amusement,  hut  she  did  approve 
of  her  going  to  church,  so  when  the  young  lady  had  ex- 

8V 


Bell  Mosk  Pays  a  Visit 

hibked  herself  to  the  invalid  in  all  her  finery,  she  went 
away  in  the  greatest  good-humnur.  As  the  evening  was 
hot,  she  had  put  on  a  dress  of  pale  blue  muslin  adorned 
with  white  ribbons,  a  straw  hat  with  many  flowers  and 
feathers,  and  to  finish  off  her  costume,  her  gloves  and 
shoes  and  sunshade  were  white.  As  these  cool  col  >urs  rather 
toned  down  the  extreme  red  of  her  healthy  complexion, 
she  really  looked  very  well ;  and  when  Gabriel  saw  her 
seated  in  a  pew  near  the  pulpit,  behaving  as  demurely 
as  a  cat  that  is  after  cream,  he  could  not  but  think 
how  pretty  and  pious  she  was.  It  was  probably  the  first 
time  that  piety  had  ever  been  associated  with  Bell's  char- 
acter, although  she  was  not  a  bad  girl  on  the  whole ;  but 
that  Gabriel  should  gift  her  with  such  a  quality  showed  how 
green  and  innocent  he  was  as  regards  the  sex. 

The  church  in  which  he  preached  was  an  ancient  build- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  crowned  by  the  cathedral.  It 
was  built  of  rough,  grey  stone,  in  the  Norman  style  of 
architecture,  and  very  little  had  been  done  to  adorn  it 
either  within  or  without,  as  the  worshippers  were  few  and 
poor,  and  Low  Church  in  their  tendencies.  Those  who 
liked  pomp  and  colour  and  ritual  could  find  all  three  in  the 
minster,  so  there  was  no  necessity  to  hold  elaborate  ser- 
vices in  this  grey,  cold,  little  chapel.  In  her  heart  Bell 
preferred  the  cathedral  with  its  music  and  choir,  its  many 
celebrants  and  fashionable  congregation,  but  out  of  diplo- 
macy she  came  to  sit  under  Gabriel  and  follow  him  as  her 
spiritual  guide.  Nevertheless,  she  thought  less  of  him  in 
this  capacity,  than  as  a  future  husband  likely  to  raise  her  to 
a  position  worthy  of  her  beauty  and  merits,  of  both  of  which 
she  entertained  a  most  excellent  opinion. 

As  usual,  the  pews  were  half  empty,  but  Gabriel,  being  a 
devout  parson,  performed  the  service  with  much  earnest- 
ness. He  read  the  lessons,  lent  his  voice  to  the  assistance 
of  the  meagre  choir,  and  preached  a  short  but  sensible 
discourse  which  pleased  everyone.  Bell  did  not  hear  much 
of  it,  for  her  mind  was  busy  with  hopes  that  Gabriel  would 
shortly  induce  his  father  to  receive  her  as  a  daughter-in-law. 
It  is  true  that  she  saw  difficulties  in  the  way,  but,  to  a  clever 
woman  like  herself,  she  did  not  think  them  unconquerable. 
Having  gone  so  far  as  to  engage  herself  to  the  young  man. 
7  8g 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

she  was  determined  to  go  to  the  whole  length  and  benefit 
as  much  as  possible  for  her  sacrifice — as  she  thought  it — of 
accepting  the  somewhat  trying  position  of  a  curate's  wife. 
With  licr  bold  good  looks  and  aggressive  love  of  dress  and 
amusement,  Bell  was  hardly  the  type  likely  to  do  credit  to 
a  parsonage.  But  any  doubts  on  that  score  never  entered 
her  vain  mind. 

When  the  service  was  over,  and  the  sparse  congregation 
had  dwindled  away,  she  went  round  to  the  vestry  and  asked 
Jarper,  the  cross  old  verger,  if  she  could  see  Mr  Pendle. 
Jarper,  who  took  a  p.iternal  interest  in  the  curate,  and  did 
not  like  Miss  Mosk  over  much,  since  she  stinted  him  of 
his  full  measure  of  beer  when  he  patronised  her  father's 
hotel,  replied  in  surly  tones  that  Mr  Pendle  was  tired  and 
would  see  no  one. 

'But  I  must  see  him,' persisted  Bell,  who  was  as  obstinate 
as  a  mule.     'My  mother  is  very  ill.' 

'  Then  why  don't  ye  stay  t'ome  and  look  arter  her  ? ' 

'She  sent  me  out  to  ask  Mr  Pendle  to  see  her,  and  I  want 
none  of  your  insolence,  Jacob  Jarper.' 

'  Don't  'ee  be  bold.  Miss  Mosk.  I  hev  bin  verger  here 
these  sixty  year,  I  hev,  an'  I  don't  want  to  be  told  my  duty 
by  sich  as  you.' 

'Such  as  me  indeed!'  cried  Bell,  with  a  flash  of  the 
paternal  temper.  '  If  I  wasn't  a  lady  I'd  give  you  a  piece  of 
my  mind.' 

'  He  !  he  ! '  chuckled  Jarper,  '  'pears  as  yer  all  ladies  by 
your  own  way  of  showin'.  Not  that  y'ain't  'andsome — far 
be  it  from  me  to  say  as  you  ain't — but  Muster  Pendle — 
well,  that's  a  different  matter.' 

At  this  moment  Gabriel  put  an  end  to  what  threatened  to 
develop  into  a  quarrel  by  appearing  at  the  vestry  door. 
On  learning  that  Mrs  Mosk  wished  to  see  him,  he  readily 
consented  to  accompany  Bell,  but  as  he  had  some  business 
to  attend  to  at  the  church  before  he  went,  he  asked  Bell  to 
wait  for  a  few  minute-. 

'I'll  be  some  little  time,  Jarper,'  said  he  kindly  to  the 
sour  old  verger,  '  so  if  you  give  me  the  keys  I'll  lock  up  and 
you  can  go  home  to  your  supper.' 

'I  am  hungry,  Muster  Pendle,'  confessed  Jarper,  'an'  it 
ain't  at  my  time  of  life  as  old  folk  shud  starve.     I've  locked 

90 


Bell  Mosk  Pays  a  Visit 

up  the  hull  church  'ceptin'  the  vestry  door,  an'  'eres  th'  key 
oft.  Be  careful  with  the  light  an'  put  it  out,  Muster 
Pendle,  for  if  you  burns  down  the  church,  what  good  is  fine 
sermons,  I'd  like  to  know  ? ' 

'  It  will  be  all  right,  Jarper.  I'll  give  you  the  key  to- 
morrow.    Good-night ! ' 

*  Good-night,  Jarper ! '  chimed  in  Bell,  in  her  most  stately 
manner. 

*  Thankee,  Muster  Pendle,  good-night,  but  I  don't  want 
no  beer  fro'  you  this  evening,  Miss  Bell  Mosk,'  growled  the 
old  man,  and  chuckling  over  this  exhibition  of  wit  he 
hobbled  away  to  his  supper. 

*  These  common  people  are  most  insolent,'  said  Bell,  with 
an  affectation  of  fine  ladyism.  '  Let  us  go  into  the  vestry, 
Gabriel,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you.  Oh,  )  ou  needn't  look  so 
scared ;  there's  nobody  about,  now  that  old  Dot-and-carry- 
one  has  gone ' — this  last  in  allusion  to  Jarper's  lameness. 

•Bell,  please,  don't  use  such  language,'  remonstrated 
Gabriel,  as  he  conducted  her  into  the  vestry;  'someone 
might  hear.' 

•I  don't  care  if  someone  does,'  retorted  Miss  Mosk, 
taking  a  chair  near  the  flaring,  spluttering  gas  jet,  '  but  I  tell 
you  there  is  no  one  about.  I  wouldn't  be  here  alone  with 
you  if  there  were.  I'm  as  careful  of  my  own  reputation  as 
I  am  of  yours,  I  can  tell  you.' 

'  Is  your  mother  ill  again  ? '  asked  Gabriel,  arranging  some 
sheets  of  paper  on  the  table  and  changmg  the  conversation. 

•Oh,  she's  no  better  and  no  worse.  But  you'd  better 
come  and  see  her,  so  that  folks  won't  be  talking  of  my 
having  spoken  to  you.  A  cat  can't  look  at  a  jug  in  this 
town  without  they  think  she's  after  the  cream.' 

'  You  wish  to  speak  with  me.  Bell  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  do  ;  come  and  sit  'longside  of  me.' 

Gabriel,  being  very  much  in  love,  obeyed  with  the  greatest 
wilUngness,  and  when  he  sat  down  under  the  gas  jet  would 
have  taken  Bell  in  his  arms,  but  that  she  evaded  his  clasp. 
•  There's  no  time  for  anything  of  that  sort,  my  dear,'  said 
she  sharply;  'we've  got  to  talk  business,  you  and  I,  we 
have.' 

*  Business  !     About  our  engagement  ?  * 

'You've  hit  it,  Gabriel;   that's  the  business    I  wish  to 

7  91 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

understand.  How  long  U  this  sort  of  thing  going 
on?' 

'What  sort  of  thing?' 

•Now,  don't  pretend  to  misunderstand  me,*  cried  Bell, 
with  acerbity,  'or  you  ani  I  shall  fall  out  of  tiie  cart. 
What  sort  of  thing  indeed  !  Why,  my  eiiL;.igemt'nt  to  you 
being  kept  secret ;  your  pretending  to  visit  mother  when 
it's  me  you  want ;  my  being  obliged  to  hide  the  ring 
you  gave  me  from  father's  eyes;  that's  the  sort  of  thing, 
Mr  Gabriel  Pendle.' 

'  I  know  it  is  a  painful  position,  dearest,  but — * 

•  Painful  position  ! '  echoed  the  girl,  contemptuously.  *  Oh, 
I  don't  care  two  straws  al)out  the  painful  position.  It's  the 
danger  I'm  thinking  about.' 

'  Danger !     What  do  you  mean  ?     Danger  from  whom  ? ' 

•  From  Mrs  Pansey ;  from  Mr  Cargrim.  She  guesses  a  lot 
and  he  knows  more  than  is  good  for  either  you  or  I.  I 
don't  want  to  lose  my  character.' 

'  Bell !  no  one  dare  say  a  word  against  your  character.' 

•  I  should  think  not,'  retorted  Miss  Mosk,  firing  up.  '  I'd 
have  the  law  on  them  if  they  did.  I  can  look  after  myself, 
I  hope,  and  there's  no  man  I  know  likely  to  get  the  better 
of  me.  I  don't  say  I'm  an  aristocrat,  Gabriel,  but  I'm  an 
honest  girl,  and  as  good  a  lady  as  any  of  them.  I'll  make 
you  a  first-class  wife  in  spite  of  my  bringing  up.' 

Galjriel  kissed  her.  'My  dailing  Bell,  you  are  the 
sweetest  and  cleverest  woman  in  the  world.  You  know 
how  I  adore  you.' 

Bell  knew  very  well,  for  she  was  sharp  enough  to  dis- 
tinguish between  genuine  and  spurious  affection.  Strange 
as  it  may  appear,  the  refined  and  educated  young  clergyman 
was  deeply  in  love  with  this  handsome,  bold  woman  of  the 
people.  Some  lovers  of  flowers  prefer  full  blown-roses,  ripe 
and  red,  to  the  most  exquisite  buds.  Gabriel's  tastes  were 
the  same,  and  he  admired  the  florid  beauty  of  Bell  with  all 
the  ardour  of  his  young  and  impetuous  heart.  He  was  blind 
to  her  likinir  for  incongruous  colours  in  dress:  he  was  deaf 
to  her  bold  expressions  and  defects  in  grammar.  What 
lured  him  was  her  ripe,  rich,  exuberant  beauty ;  what 
charmed  him  was  the  flash  of  her  white  teeth  and  the 
brilliancy  of  her  eyes  when  she  smiled;   what  dominated 

9a 


Bell  Mosk  Pays  a  Visit 

him  was  her  strong  will  and  practical  way  of  looking  on 
worldly  afifairs.  Opposite  natures  are  often  attracted  to  one 
another  by  the  very  fact  that  they  are  so  undeniably  un- 
like, and  the  very  characteristics  in  Bell  which  pleased  Gabriel 
were  those  which  he  lacked  himself. 

Undoubtedly  he  loved  her,  but,  it  may  be  asked,  did  she 
love  him?  and  that  is  the  more  difficult  quesiion  to  answer. 
Candidly  speaking.  Bell  had  an  affection  for  Gabriel.  She 
liked  his  good  looks,  his  refined  voice,  his  very  weakness  of 
character  was  not  unpleasing  to  her.  But  she  did  not  love 
him  sufficiently  to  marry  him  for  himself  alone.  What  she 
wished  to  marry  was  the  gentleman,  the  clergyman,  the  son 
of  the  Bishop  of  Beorminster,  and  unless  Gabriel  could  give 
her  all  the  pleasures  and  delights  attendant  on  his  worldly 
position,  she  was  not  prepared  to  become  Mrs  Gabriel 
Pendle.  It  was  to  make  this  clear  to  him,  to  clinch  the 
bargain,  to  show  that  she  was  willing  to  barter  her  milk- 
maid beauty  and  strong  common  sense  for  his  position  and 
possible  money,  that  she  had  come  to  see  him.  Not  being 
bemused  with  love,  Bell  Mosk  was  thoroughly  practical,  and 
so  spoke  very  much  to  the  point  Never  was  there  so 
prosaic  an  interview, 

'  Well,  it  just  comes  to  this,'  she  said  determinedly,  '  I'm 
not  going  to  be  kept  in  the  background  serving  out  beer 
any  longer.  If  I  am  worth  marrying  I  am  worth  ac- 
knowledging, and  that's  just  what  you've  got  to  do, 
Gabriel.' 

'  But  my  father ! '  faltered  Gabriel,  nervously,  for  he  saw 
in  a  flash  the  difiiculties  of  his  position. 

'  What  about  your  father?     He  can't  eat  me,  can  he?' 

•  He  can  cut  rne  off  with  a  shilling,  my  dear.  And  that's 
just  what  he  will  do  if  he  knows  I'm  engaged  to  you.  Surely, 
Bell,  with  your  strong  common  sense,  you  can  see  that  for 
yourself ! ' 

•  Of  course  I  see  it,'  retorted  Bell,  sharply,  for  the  speech 
was  not  flattering  to  her  vanity;  'all  the  same,  something 
must  be  done.' 

'We  must  wait.' 

•  I'm  sick  of  waiting.' 

Gabriel  rose  to  his  feet  and  began  to  pace  to  and  fro. 
*You  cannot  desire  our  marriage  more  than  I  do,'  he  said 

93 


The  Bishop' s  Secret 

fondly.  •  I  wish  to  make  you  my  wife  in  as  public  a  manner 
as  possible.  Hut  you  know  I  have  only  a  small  income  as 
a  curate,  and  you  would  not  wish  us  to  begin  life  on  a 
pittance.' 

'  I  should  think  not.  I've  had  enough  of  cutting  and 
contriving.  But  how  do  you  intend  to  get  enough  for  us 
to  marry  on  ?  ' 

'  My  father  has  promised  me  the  rectorship  of  Heathcroft. 
The  present  incumbent  is  old  and  cannot  possibly  live  long.' 

*  I  believe  he'll  live  on  just  to  spite  us,'  grumbled  Bell. 
'How  much  is  the  living  worth?' 

'  Six  hundred  a  year ;  there  is  also  the  rectory,  you  know.' 
'  Well,  I  daresay  we  can  manage  on  that,  Gabriel.     Per- 
haps, after  all,  it  will  be  best  to  wait,  but  I  don't  like  it.' 

*  Neither  do  I,  my  dear.  If  you  like,  I'll  tell  my  father 
and  marry  you  to-morrow.' 

•Then  you  would  lose  Heathcroft.' 

•It's  extremely  probable  I  would,'  replied  Gabriel,  dryly. 

*  In  that  case  we'll  wait,'  said  Bell,  springing  up  briskly. 
'  I  don't  suppose  that  old  man  is  immortal,  arwi  I'm  willing 
to  stick  to  you  for  another  twelve  months.' 

'  Bell !  I  thought  you  loved  me  sufificiently  to  accept  any 
position.' 

'  I  do  love  you,  Gabriel,  but  I'm  not  a  fool,  and  I'm  not 
cut  out  for  a  poor  man's  wife.  I've  had  quite  enough  of 
being  a  poor  man's  daughter.  When  poverty  comes  in  at 
the  door,  love  flies  out  of  the  window.  That's  as  true  as 
true.  No  !  we'll  wait  till  the  old  rector  dies,  but  if  he  lasts 
longer  than  twelve  months,  I'll  lose  heart  and  have  to  look 
about  me  for  another  husband  in  my  own  rank  of  life.' 

'  Bell, '  said  Gabriel,  in  a  pained  voice,  '  you  are  cruel  ! ' 

'  Rubbish  ! '  replied  the  practical  barmaid,  '  i'm  sensible. 
Now,  come  and  sec  mother.' 


CHAPTER    XIII 

A    STORMY    NIGHT 

Having  given  Gabriel  plainly  to  understand  the  terms  upon 
which  she  was  prepared  to  continue  their  secret  engage- 
ment, Bell  kissed  him  once  or  twice  to  soften  the  rigour  of 
her  speech.  Then  she  intimated  that  she  would  return 
alone  to  The  Derby  Winner,  and  that  Gabriel  could  follow 
after  a  reasonable  interval  of  time  had  elapsed.  She  also 
explained  the  meaning  of  these  precautions. 

'  If  the  old  cats  of  the  town  saw  you  and  I  walking 
along  on  Sunday  night,'  said  she,  at  the  door  of  the  vestry, 
'  they  would  screech  out  that  we  were  keeping  company, 
and  in  any  case  would  couple  our  names  together.  If  they 
did,  father  would  make  it  so  warm  for  me  that  I  should 
have  to  tell  the  truth,  and  then — well,'  added  Miss  Mosk, 
with  a  brilliant  smile,  'you  know  his  temper  and  my 
temper.' 

'  You  are  sure  it  is  quite  safe  for  you  to  go  home  alone  ? ' 
said  Gabriel,  who  was  infected  with  the  upper-class  pre- 
judice that  every  unmarried  girl  should  be  provided  with  a 
chaperon. 

♦Safe! '  echoed  the  dauntless  Bell,  in  a  tone  of  supreme 
contempt.  '  My  dear  Gabriel,  I'd  be  safe  in  the  middle  of 
Timbuctoo  ! ' 

'  There  are  many  of  these  rough  harvest  labourers  about 
here,  you  know.' 

•  I'll  slap  their  faces  if  they  speak  to  me.  I'd  like  to  see 
them  try  it,  that's  all.  And  now,  good-bye  for  the  present, 
dear.  I  must  get  home  as  soon  as  possible,  for  there  is  a 
storm  coming,  and  I  don't  want  to  get  my  Sunday-go-to- 
meeting  clothes  spoilt.' 

When  she  slipped  off  like  a  white  ghost  into  the  gathering 


TJic  Bishops  Secret 

darkness,  (labriel  remained  at  the  door  and  looked  up  to 
the  fast  clouding  sky.  It  was  now  about  nine  o'clock, 
and  the  night  was  hot  and  thunder)-,  and  so  airless  that  it 
was  difficult  to  breathe.  Overhead,  masses  of  black  cloud, 
heavy  with  storm,  hung  low  down  over  the  town,  and  the 
earth,  panting  and  worn  out  with  the  heat,  waited  thirstily 
for  the  cool  drench  of  the  rain.  Evidently  a  witch-tempest 
was  brewing  in  the  halls  of  heaven  on  no  small  scale,  and 
Gabriel  wished  that  it  would  break  at  once  to  relieve  the 
strain  from  which  nature  seemed  to  suffer.  Whether  it  was 
the  fatigue  of  his  day's  labour,  or  the  late  interview  with 
Bell  which  depressed  him,  he  did  not  know,  but  he  felt 
singularly  pessimistic  and  his  mind  was  filled  with  pre- 
monitions of  ill.  Like  most  people  with  higiily-strung 
natures,  Gabriel  was  easily  affected  by  atmospheric  in- 
fluence, so  no  doubt  the  palpable  electricity  in  the  dry,  hot 
air  depressed  his  nerves  but  whether  this  was  the  cause  of 
his  restlessness  he  could  not  say.  He  felt  anxious  and 
melancholy,  and  was  worried  by  a  sense  of  coming  ill,  though 
what  such  ill  might  be,  or  from  what  quarter  it  would 
come,  he  knew  not.  While  thus  gloomily  contemplative, 
the  great  bell  of  the  cathedral  boomed  out  nine  deep 
strokes,  and  the  hollow  sound  breaking  in  on  his  reflections 
made  him  wake  up,  shake  off  his  dismal  thoughts,  and  sent 
him  inside  to  attend  to  his  work.  Yet  the  memory  of  those 
forebodings  occurred  to  him  often  in  after  days,  and  read 
by  the  light  of  after  events,  he  was  unable  to  decide 
whether  the  expectation  of  evil,  so  strongly  forced  upon 
him  then,  wns  due  to  natural  or  supernatural  causes.  At 
present  he  ascribed  his  anxieties  to  the  disturbed  state  of 
the' atmosphere. 

In  the  meantime,  Bell,  who  was  a  healthy  young  woman, 
with  no  nerves  to  be  affected  by  the  atmosphere,  walked 
swiftly  homeward  along  the  airless  streets.  There  were 
few  people  on  their  feet,  for  the  night  was  too  close  for 
exercise,  and  the  niajririty  of  the  in'naiitants  sat  in  chairs 
before  their  doors,  weary  and  out  of  temper.  Nature  and 
her  creatures  were  waiting  for  the  windows  of  the  firma- 
ment to  be  opened,  for  the  air  to  be  cleansed,  for  life  to  be 
renewed.  Bell  met  none  of  the  harvesters  and  was  nor 
molested  in  any  way.     Had  she  been  spoken  to,  or  hustled. 

96 


A  Stormy  Night 

there  is  no  doubt  she  would  have  been  as  good  as  her  word 
and  have  slapped  her  assailant's  face.  Fortunately,  there 
was  no  need  for  her  to  proceed  to  such  extremes. 

At  the  door  of  The  Derby  Winner  she  was  rather 
surprised  to  find  Miss  Wiiichello  wailing  for  her.  The 
little  old  lady  wore  her  poke  bonnet  and  old-fashioned 
black  silk  cloak,  and  appeared  anxious  and  nervous,  and 
altogether  unlike  her  usual  cheery  self.  Bell  liked  Miss 
Whichello  as  much  as  she  disliked  Mrs  Pansey,  therefore 
she  greeted  her  with  unfeigned  pleasure,  although  she  could 
not  help  expressing  her  surprise  that  the  visitor  was  in  that 
quarter  of  the  town  so  late  at  night.  Miss  Whichello 
produced  a  parcel  from  under  her  voluminous  cloak  and 
offered  it  as  an  explanation  of  her  presence. 

'This  is  a  pot  of  calfs-foot  jelly  for  your  mother,  Miss 
Mosk,'  she  said.  '  Mr  Cargrim  came  to  luncheon  at  my 
house  to-day,  and  he  told  me  how  ill  your  mother  is.  I 
was  informed  that  she  was  asleep,  so,  not  wishing  to  disturb 
her,  I  waited  until  you  returned.' 

'  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble,  Miss 
Whichello,'  said  Bell,  gratefully  receiving  the  jelly.  '  I 
hope  you  have  not  been  waiting  long.' 

*  Only  ten  minutes ;  your  servant  told  me  that  you  would 
return  soon.' 

*  I  have  been  to  church  and  stopped  after  service  to  talk 
to  some  friends.  Miss  Whichello.  Won't  you  come  in  for 
a  few  minutes  ?     I'll  see  if  my  mother  is  awake.' 

'  Thank  you,  I'll  come  in  for  a  time,  but  do  not  waken 
your  mother  on  my  account.  Sleep  is  always  the  best 
medicine  in  case  of  sickness.  I  hope  Mrs  Mosk  is  careful 
of  her  diet.' 

*  Well,  she  eats  very  little.' 

'That  is  wise  ;  very  little  food,  but  that  little  nourishing 
and  frequently  administered.  Give  her  a  cup  of  beef-tea 
two  or  three  times  in  the  night,  my  dear,  and  you'll  find  it 
will  sustain  the  body  wonderfully.' 

'  I'll  remember  to  do  so,'  replied  Bell,  gravely,  although 
she  had  no  intention  of  remaining  awake  all  night  to  heat 
beef-tea  and  dose  her  mother  with  it,  especially  as  the 
invalid  was  not  ill  enough  for  such  extreme  measures. 
But  she  was  so  touched  by  Miss  Whichello's  kindness  that 

G  g? 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

she  would  not  have  offended  her,  by  scouting  her  pre- 
scription, for  the  world. 

By  this  time  Miss  Whichello  was  seated  in  a  little  private 
parlour  off  the  bar,  illuminated  by  an  oil-lamp.  This  Bell 
turned  up,  and  then  she  noticed  that  her  visitor  looked 
anxious  and  ill  at  ease.  Once  or  twice  she  attempted  to 
sneak,  but  c\osed  her  mouth  again.  Bell  wondered  if  Mrs 
Pansey  had  been  at  work  coupling  her  name  with  that  of 
Gabriel's,  and  whether  Miss  Whichello  had  come  down 
to  relieve  her  conscience  by  warning  her  against  seeing  too 
much  of  the  curate.  But,  as  she  knew  very  well.  Miss 
Whichello  was  too  nervous  and  too  much  of  a  lady  to  give 
her  opinion  on  questions  unasked,  and  therefore,  banishing 
the  defiant  look  which  had  begun  to  harden  her  face,  she 
waited  to  hear  if  it  was  any  other  reason  than  bestowing 
the  jelly  which  had  brought  the  little  old  spinster  to  so 
disreputable  a  quarter  of  the  town  at  so  untoward  an  hour. 
Finally  Miss  Whichello's  real  reason  for  calling  came  out 
by  degrees,  and  in  true  feminine  fashion  she  approached 
the  main  point  by  side  issues. 

'Is  your  father  in,  Miss  Mosk?'  she  asked,  clasping  and 
unclasping  her  hands  feverishly  on  her  lap. 

•No,  Miss  Whichello.  He  rode  over  this  afternoon  to 
Southberry  on  business,  and  we  do  not  expect  him  back 
till  to-morrow  morning.  Poor  father  I '  sighed  Bell,  *  he  went 
away  in  any/hing  but  good  spirits,  for  he  is  terribly  worried 
over  money  matters.' 

*  The  payment  of  his  rent  is  troubling  him,  perhaps ! ' 
'Yes,    Miss    Whichello.     This   is  an    expensive    hotel, 

and  the  rent  is  high.  We  find  it  so  difficult  to  make 
the  place  pay  that  we  are  behindhand  with  the  rent 
Sir  Harry  Brace,  our  landlord,  has  been  very  kind  in 
waiting,  but  we  can't  expect  him  to  stand  out  of  his 
money  much  longer.  I'm  afraid  in  the  end  we'll  have 
to  give  up  The  Derby  Winner.  But  it  is  no  good  my 
v.orrying  you  about  our  troubles,'  concluded  Bell,  in  a 
more  vivacious  tone ;  '  what  do  you  wish  to  see  father 
about,  Miss  Whichello  ?     Anything  that  I  can  do  ? ' 

*  Well,  my  dear,  it's  this  way,'  said  the  old  lady,  nervously. 
'  You  know  that  I  have  a  much  larger  income  than  I  need, 
and  that  I  am  always  ready  to  help  the  deserving.' 


A  Stormy  Night 

*  I  know,  Miss  Whichello !  You  give  help  where  Mrs 
Pansy  only  gives  advice.  I  know  who  is  most  thought  of  j 
that  I  do  ! ' 

'  Mrs  Pansy  has  her  own  methods  of  dispensing  charity, 
Miss  Mosk.' 

'Tracts  and  interference,'  muttered  Bell,  under  her 
breath ;  '  meddlesome  old  tabby  that  she  is.' 

'  ?vlr  Cargrim  was  at  my  house  to-day,  as  I  told  you,' 
pursued  Miss  Whichello,  not  having  heard  this  remark, 
'and  he  mentioned  a  man  called  Jentham  as  a  poor 
creature  in  need  of  help.' 

'He's  a  poor  creature,  I  daresay,'  said  Miss  Mosk, 
tossing  her  head,  'for  he  owes  father  more  money  than 
he  can  pay,  although  he  does  say  that  he'll  settle  his  bill 
next  week.     But  he  s  a  bad  lot' 

'  A  bad  lot,  Miss  Mosk  ? ' 

*  As  bad  as  they  make  'em.  Miss  Whichello.  Don't  you 
give  him  a  penny,  for  he'll  only  waste  it  on  drink.' 

*  Does  he  drink  to  excess  ?  ' 

'  I  should  think  so ;  he  finishes  a  bottle  of  brandy 
every  day.' 

'Oh,  Miss  Mosk,  how  very  dreadful!'  cried  IMiss 
Whichello,  quite  in  the  style  of  Daisy  Norsham.  '  Why  is 
he  staying  in  Beorminster  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know,  but  it's  for  no  good,  you  may  be  sure. 
If  he  isn't  here  he's  hob-nobbing  with  those  gipsy 
wretches  who  have  a  camp  on  Southberry  Common. 
Mother  Jael  and  he  are  always  together.' 

'Can  you  describe  him?'  asked  Miss  Whichello, 
with  some  hesitation. 

'He  is  tall  and  thin,  with  a  dark,  wicked-looking 
face,  and  he  has  a  nasty  scar  on  the  right  cheek,  slant- 
ing across  it  to  the  mouth.  But  the  funny  thing  is, 
that  with  all  his  rags  and  drunkenness  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  gentleman  about  him.  I  don't  like  him, 
yet  I  can't  dislike  him.  He's  attractive  in  his  own  way 
from  his  very  wickedness.  But  I'm  sure,'  finished  Bell, 
with  a  vigorous  nod,  '  that  he's  a  black-hearted  Nero. 
He  has  done  a  deal  of  damage  in  his  time  both  to  men 
and  women ;  I'm  as  sure  of  that  as  I  sit  here,  though  I 
can  give  no  reason  for  saying  so.* 

99 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

Miss  Whichello  listened  to  this  graphic  description  in 
silence.  She  was  very  pale,  and  held  her  handkerchief 
to  her  mouth  with  one  trembling  hand ;  the  other  beat 
nervously  on  her  lap,  and  it  was  only  by  a  strong  effort 
of  will  that  she  managed  to  conquer  her  emotion. 

'  I  daresay  you  are  right,'  she  observed,  in  a  tremulous 
voice.  •  Indeed,  I  might  have  expected  as  much,  for 
last  night  he  frig'ntened  my  niece  and  her  maid  on  the 
high  road.  I  thought  it  would  be  best  to  give  him 
money  and  send  him  away,  so  that  so  evil  a  man  should 
not  remain  here  to  be  a  source  of  danL-er  to  the  town.' 

'Give  him  money!*  cried  Miss  Moslc.  'I'd  give  him 
the  cat-o-nine  tails  if  I  had  my  way.  Don't  you  trouble 
about  him,  Miss  VVhichello ;  he's  no  good.' 

'  But  if  I  could  see  him  I  might  soften  his  heart,' 
pleaded  the  old  lady,  very  much  in  earnest. 

'Soften  a  brick-bat,'  rejoined  Bell;  'you'd  have  just 
as  much  success  with  one  as  with  the  other.  Besides, 
you  can't  see  him,  Miss  Whichello— at  all  events,  not 
to-night — for  he's  on  the  common  with  his  nasiy  gipsies, 
and — won't  be  back  till  the  morning.  I  wish  he'd  stay 
away  altogether,  I  do.' 

'  In  that  case  I  shall  not  trouble  about  him,'  said  the 
old  lady,  rising;  'on  some  future  occasion  I  may  see 
him.  But  you  need  not  say  I  was  asking  for  him, 
Miss   Mosk.' 

'  I  won't  say  a  word ;  he'd  only  come  worrying  round 
your  liouse  if  he  thought  you  wanted  to  give  him 
money.' 

•  Oh,  he  mustn't  do  that ;  he  mustn't  come  there  I '  cried 
Miss  Whichello,  alavmed. 

'  lie  won't,  for  I'll  hold  my  tongue.  You  can  rest 
easy  on  that  score,  Miss  Whichello.  B^it  my  advice  is, 
don't  pick  him  up  out  of  the  mire;  he'll  only  fall  back 
into  it  ag.iin.' 

'  You  have  a  bad  opinion  of  him.  Miss  Mosk.' 

'The  very  worst,'  replied  Bell,  conducting  her  guest 
to  the  door ;  '  he's  a  gaol-bird  and  a  scallywag,  and  all  that's 
bad.  Well,  good-night,  Miss  Whichello,  and  thank  you 
for  the  jelly.' 

'There    is    no    need    for    thanks,    Miss    Mosk.     Good- 

loo 


A  Stormy  Night 

night ! '  and  the  old  lady  tripped  up  the  street,  keeping 
in  the  middle  of  it,  lest  any  robber  should  spring  out  on 
her  from  the  shadow  of  the  houses. 

The  storm  was  coming  nearer,  and  soon  would  break 
directly  over  the  town,  for  flashes  of  lightning  were 
weaving  fiery  patterns  against  the  black  clouds,  and 
every  now  and  then  a  hoarse  growl  of  thunder  went 
grinding  across  the  sky.  Anxious  to  escape  the  coming 
downfall,  Miss  Whichello  climbed  up  the  street  towards 
the  cathedral  as  quickly  and  steadily  as  her  old  legs 
could  carry  her.  Just  as  she  emerged  into  the  close,  a 
shadow  blacker  than  the  blackness  of  the  night  glided 
past  her,  A  zig-zag  of  lightning  cut  the  sky  at  the 
moment  and  revealed  the  face  of  Mr  Cargrim,  who  in  his 
turn  recognised  the  old  lady  in  the  bluish  glare. 

'Miss  Whichello!'  he  exclaimed;  'what  a  surprise!' 
•You  may  well  say  that,  Mr  Cargrim,'  replied  the  old 
lady,  with  a  nervous  movement,  for  the  sound  of  his 
voice  and  the  sudden  view  of  his  face  startled  her  not  a 
little.  '  It  is  not  often  I  am  out  at  this  hour,  but  I  have 
been  taking  some  jelly  to  Mrs  Mosk.' 

*  You  are  a  good  Samaritan,  Miss  Whichello.  I  hope 
she  is  better  ? ' 

*I  think  so,  but  I  did  not  see  her,  as  she  is  asleep. 
I  spoke  with  her  daughter,  however.' 

•I  trust  you  were  not  molested  by  that  ruffian  Jen- 
tham,  who  stays  at  The  Derby  Winner,'  said  Cargrim, 
with  hypocritical  anxiety. 

*  Oh,  no !  he  is  away  on  Southberry  Heath  with  his 
gipsy  friends,  I  believe — at  least.  Miss  Mosk  told  me  so. 
Good-night,  Mr  Cargrim,'  she  added,  evidently  not  anxious 
to  prolong  the  conversation.  *  I  wish  to  get  under  shelter 
before  the  storm  breaks.' 

*  Let  me  see  you  to  your  door  at  least.' 

Miss  Whichello  rejected  this  officious  ofTer  by  dryly 
remarking  that  she  had  accomplished  the  worst  part  of  her 
journey,  and  bidding  the  chaplam  '  Good-night,' tripped  across 
the  square  to  her  own  Jenny  Wren  nest.  Cargrim  looked 
after  her  with  a  doubtful  look  as  she  vanished  into  the 
darkness,  then,  turning  on  his  heel,  walked  swiftly  down  the 
street  towards   Eastgate.      He  had  as  much  aversion  to 

lOI 


The  Bishops  Secret 

getting  wet  as  a  cat,  and  put  his  best  foot  foremost  so  as  to 
reach  the  palace  before  the  rain  came  on.  Besides,  it  was  ten 
o'clock — a  late  hour  for  a  respectable  parson  to  be  abroad. 

'She's  been  tryin.!:^  to  see  Jenthara,'  thought  Mr  Cargrim, 
recalling  Miss  W'hichello's  nervous  hesitation,  '  I  wonder 
what  she  kr.ows  about  him.  The  man  is  a  mystery,  and  is 
in  Beorminster  for  no  good  purpose.  Miss  Whichello  and 
the  bishop  both  know  that  purpose,  I'm  certain.  Well ! 
well !  two  secrets  are  better  than  one,  and  if  I  gain  a 
knowledge  of  them  both,  I  may  inhabit  Heathcroft  Rectory 
sooner  than  I  expect.' 

Cargrim's  meditations  were  here  cut  short  by  the  fall- 
ing of  heavy  drops  of  rain,  and  he  put  all  his  mind  into 
his  muscles  to  travel  the  faster.  Indeed,  he  almost  ran 
through  the  new  town,  and  was  soon  out  on  the  country 
road  which  conducted  to  the  palace.  But,  in  spite  of  all 
his  sjjeed,  the  rain  caught  him,  for  with  an  incessant  play 
of  lightning  and  a  constant  roll  of  thunder  came  a  regular 
tropical  downpour.  The  rain  descended  in  one  solid  mass, 
flooding  the  ground  and  beating  flat  the  crops.  Cargrim 
was  drenchi-d  to  the  skin,  and  by  the  time  he  slipped 
through  the  small  iron  gate  near  the  big  ones,  into 
the  episcopalian  park,  he  looked  like  a  lean  water-rat. 
Being  in  a  bad  temper  from  his  shower  bath,  he  was 
almost  as  venomous  as  that  animal,  and  raced  up  the 
avenue  in  his  sodden  clothing,  shivering  and  dripping. 
Suddenly  he  heard  the  quick  trot  of  a  horse,  and  guessing 
that  the  bishop  was  returning,  he  stood  aside  in  the  shadow 
of  the  trees  to  let  his  superior  pass  by.  Like  the  chaplain, 
Dr  Pendle  was  streaminL<  with  water,  and  his  horse's  hoofs 
plashed  up  the  sodden  ground  as  though  he  were  crossing 
a  marsh.  By  the  livid  glare  of  the  lightnings  wliich  shot 
streaks  of  blue  fire  through  the  descending  deluge,  Cargrim 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bishop's  face.  It  was  deathly 
pale,  and  bore  a  look  of  mingled  horror  and  terror. 
Another  moment  and  he  had  passed  into  the  blackness 
of  the  drenching  rain,  leaving  Cargrim  marvelling  at 
the  torture  of  the  mind  which  could  produce  so  terrible 
an  expression. 

'It  is  the  face  of  Cain,'  whispered  Cargrim  to  himself. 
•  What  can  his  secret  be  ? ' 

loa 


CHAPTER    XIV 

*  RUMOUR    FULL   OF   TONGUES* 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  learn  the  genesis  of  a  rumour. 
It  may  be  started  by  a  look,  a  word,  a  gesture,  and  it  spreads 
with  such  marvellous  rapidity  that  by  the  time  public 
curiosity  is  fully  aroused,  no  one  can  trace  the  original 
source,  so  many  and  winding  are  the  channels  through 
which  it  has  flowed.  Yet  there  are  exceptions  to  this 
general  rule,  especially  in  criminal  cases,  where,  for  the 
safety  of  the  public,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  the  matter.  Therefore,  the  rumour  which  per- 
vaded Beorminster  on  Monday  morning  was  soon  traced 
by  the  police  to  a  carter  from  Southberry.  This  man 
mentioned  to  a  friend  that,  when  crossing  the  Heath 
during  the  early  morning,  he  had  come  across  the  body 
of  a  man.  The  rumour — weak  in  its  genesis — stated  first 
that  a  man  had  been  hurt,  later  on  that  he  had  been 
wounded;  by  noon  it  was  announced  that  he  was  dead, 
and  finally  the  actual  truth  came  out  that  the  man  had 
been  murdered.  The  police  authorities  saw  the  carter  and 
were  conducted  by  him  to  the  corpse,  which,  after  exam- 
ination, they  brought  to  the  dead-house  in  Beorminster. 
Then  all  doubt  came  to  an  end,  and  it  was  ofhcially 
■declared  during  the  afternoon  that  Jentham,  the  mihtary 
vagabond  lately  resident  at  The  Derby  Winner,  had  been 
shot  through  the  heart  But  even  rumour,  prolific  as  it 
is  in  invention,  could  not  suggest  who  had  murdered  the 
man. 

So  unusual  an  event  in  the  quiet  cathedral  city  caused 
the  greatest  excitement,  and  the  streets  were  filled  with 
people  talking  over  the  matter.  Amateur  detectives,  swill- 
ing beer  in  public-houses,  gave  their  opinions  about  the 
crime,   and   the   more   beer  they   drank,   the   wilder  and 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

more  impossible  became  their  theories.  Some  suggested 
that  the  gii)sies  camped  on  Southbcrry  Heatli,  who  were 
continually  fighting  amongst  themselves,  had  killed  the 
miserable  creature;  others,  asserting  that  the  scamp  was 
desperately  poor,  hinted  at  suicide  induced  by  sheer 
despair ;  but  the  most  generally  accepted  opinion  was  that 
Jentham  had  been  killed  in  some  urunken  frolic  by  one  or 
more  Irish  harvesters.  The  Beorminster  reporters  visited 
the  police  station  and  endeavoured  to  learn  what  Inspector 
Tinkler  thoughL  He  had  seen  the  body,  he  had  viewed  the 
spot  where  it  had  been  foun>l,  he  had  examined  the  carter, 
Giles  Crake,  so  he  was  the  man  most  likely  to  give  satis- 
factory answers  to  the  questions  as  to  who  had  killed  the 
man,  and  why  he  had  been  shot.  But  Inspector  Tinkler 
was  the  most  wary  of  officials,  and  pending  the  inquest 
and  the  verdict  of  twelve  good  men  and  true,  he  declined 
to  commit  himself  to  an  opinion.  The  result  of  this 
reticence  was  that  the  reporters  had  to  fall  back  on  their 
inventive  faculties,  and  next  morning  published  three 
theories,  side  by  side,  concerning  the  murder,  so  that  the 
Beorminster  Chronicle  containing  these  suppositions  [proved 
to  be  as  interesting  as  a  police  novel,  and  quite  as  unre- 
liable. But  it  amused  its  readers  and  sold  largely,  therefore 
proprietor  and  editor  were  quite  satisfied  that  fiction  was 
as  good  as  fact  to  tickle  the  long  ears  of  a  credulous 
public. 

As  the  dead  man  had  lodged  at  The  Derby  Winner, 
and  many  people  had  known  him  there,  quite  a  sensation 
was  caused  by  the  report  of  his  untimely  end.  From 
morning  till  night  the  public-house  was  thronged  with 
customers,  thirstmg  both  for  news  and  beer.  Nevertheless, 
although  business  was  so  bri.-,k,  Mosk  was  by  no  means 
in  a  good  temper.  He  had  returned  early  that  morning 
from  Southberry,  and  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  hear 
about  the  matter.  When  he  heard  who  had  been  killed,  he 
re^^arded  the  committal  of  the  crime  quite  in  a  personal 
light,  for  the  dead  man  owed  him  money,  and  his  death 
had  discharged  the  debt  in  a  way  of  which  Mr  Mosk  did 
not  approve.  He  frequently  referred  to  his  loss  during  the 
day,  when  congratulated  by  unthinking  customers  on  the 
excellent  trade  the  assassination  had  brought  about. 

104 


*  Rumour  fztll  of  Tongues ' 

'For,  as  I  allays  ses,'  remarked  one  wiseacre,  'it's  an  ill 
wind  as  don't  blow  good  to  somebody.' 

'Yah!'  growled  Mosk,  in  his  beery  voice,  'it's  about 
as  broad  as  it's  long  so  far  as  I'm  concerned.  I've  lust  a 
couple  of  quid  through  Jentham  goin'  and  getlin'  shot,  and 
it  will  take  a  good  many  tankards  of  bitter  at  thru'p'nce  to 
make  that  up.' 

*  Oo  d'y  think  shot  'im,  Mr  Mosk  ? ' 

*Arsk  me  sum'thin'  easier,  carn't  you?  I  don't  know 
nothin'  about  the  cove,  I  don't ;  he  comes  'ere  two,  three  weeks 
ago,  and  leaves  owin'  me  money.  Where  he  comes  from,  or 
who  he  is,  or  what  he's  bin  doin'  to  get  shot  I  know  no 
more  nor  you  do.  All  I  does  know,'  finished  Mosk,  em- 
phatically, '  is  as  I've  lost  two  bloomin'  quid,  an'  that's  a  lot 
to  a  poor  man  like  me.' 

*  Well,  father,  it's  no  good  making  a  fuss  over  it,'  cried 
Bell,  who  overheard  his  grumbling.  '  If  Jentham  hadn't 
been  shot,  we  wouldn't  be  doing  so  welL  For  my  part, 
I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  soul.' 

*  Poor  blackguard,  you  mean  ! ' 

'  No,  I  don't.  I  don't  call  any  corpse  a  blackguard.  If 
he  was  one,  I  daresay  he's  being  punished  enough  now 
without  our  calling  him  names.  He  wasn't  the  kind  of 
man  I  fancied,  but  there's  no  denying  he  was  attractive  in 
his  own  wicked  way.' 

'  Ah ! '  said  a  dirty-looking  man,  who  was  more  than 
suspected  of  being  a  welcher,  'couldn't  he  tell  slap-up 
yarns  about  H'injins  an'  'eathens  as  bows  down  to  stocks 
and  stones.     Oh,  no  !  not  he — ' 

'  He  could  lie  like  a  one-year-old,  if  that's  what  y'  mean,' 
said  Mosk. 

'Bloomin'  fine  lyin',  any'ow,'  retorted  the  critic.  'I'd 
git  orf  the  turf  if  I  cud  spit  'em  out  that  style;  mek  m' 
fortin',  I  would,  on  th'  paipers.' 

*Y've  bin  chucked  orf  the  turf  often  enough  as  it  is,' 
replied  the  landlord,  sourly,  whereat,  to  give  the  conversation 
a  less  personal  application,  the  dirty  welcher  remarked  that 
he  would  drain  another  biiter. 

'  I  suppose  you'll  be  as  drunk  as  a  pig  by  night,'  said 
Bell,  taking  the  order.  'Jentham  was  bad,  but  he  wasn't 
a  swine  lik«  you.' 

s  105 


The  Bishop s  Secret 

•Garni  'e  got  drunk,  didn't  he?  Oh,  no  I  You  bet 
he  didn't.' 

'  He  got  drunk  like  a  gentleman,  at  all  events.  None 
of  your  sauce,  Black,  or  I'll  have  you  chucked.  You  know 
me  by  this  time,  I  hope.' 

In  fact,  as  several  of  the  customers  remarked,  Miss  Bell 
was  in  a  fine  temper  that  morning,  and  her  tongue  raged 
round  like  a  prairie  fire.  This  bad  humour  was  ascribed 
by  the  public  to  the  extra  work  entailed  on  her  by  the 
sensation  caused  by  the  murder,  but  the  true  cause  lay 
with  Gabriel.  He  had  promised  faithfully,  on  the  previous 
night,  to  come  round  and  see  Mrs  Mosk,  but,  to  Bell's 
anger,  had  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance — the  first  time  he 
had  done  such  a  thing.  As  Miss  Mosk's  object  was  always 
to  have  an  ostensible  reason  for  seeing  Gabriel  in  order  to 
protect  her  character,  she  was  not  at  all  pleased  that  he  had 
not  turned  her  excuse  for  calling  on  him  into  an  actual  fact. 
It  is  true  that  Gabriel  presented  himself  late  in  the  afternoon 
and  requested  to  see  the  invalid,  but  instead  of  taking  him 
up  to  the  sickroom,  Bell  whirled  the  curate  into  a  small 
back  parlour  and  closed  the  door,  in  order,  as  she  remarked, 
'to  have  it  out  with  him.' 

'  Now,  then,'  said  she,  planting  her  back  against  the  door, 
*  what  do  you  mean  by  treating  me  like  a  bit  of  dirt  ? ' 

'You  mean  that  I  did  not  come  round  last  night, 
Bell  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  do.  I  told  mother  you  would  visit  her.  I  said  to 
Jacob  Jarper  as  I'd  come  to  ask  you  to  see  mother,  and 
you  go  and  make  me  out  a  liar  by  not  turning  up.  What 
do  you  mean  ? ' 

•  I  was  ill  and  couldn't  keep  my  promise,'  said  Gabriel, 
shortly. 

'  111! '  said  Bell,  looking  him  up  and  down ;  '  well,  you 
do  look  ill.  You've  been  washed  and  wrung  out  till  you're 
limp  as  a  rag.  White  in  the  face,  black  under  the  eyes  I 
What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself,  I'd  like  to  know. 
You  were  all  right  when  I  left  you  last  night' 
-  'The  weather  affected  my  nerves,'  explained  Gabriel, 
with  a  weary  sigh,  passing  his  thin  hand  across  his  anxious 
face.  '  I  felt  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  sit  in  a  close 
room  and  talk  to  a  sick  woman,  so  I  went  round  to  the 

io6 


*  Rumour  full  of  Tongues ' 

stables  where  I  keep  my  horse,  and  took  him  out  in  order 
to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air.' 

•  What  1  You  rode  out  at  that  late  hour,  in  all  that 
storm  ? ' 

'  The  storm  came  on  later,  I  went  out  almost  immedi- 
ately after  you  left,  and  got  back  at  half-past  ten.  It  wasn't 
so  very  late.' 

'  Well,  of  all  mad  things !'  said  Bell,  grimly.  '  It's  easy  seen, 
Mr  Gabriel  Pendle,  how  badly  you  want  a  wife  at  your 
elbow.     Where  did  you  go  ? ' 

'  I  rode  out  on  to  Southberry  Heath,'  replied  Gabriel,  with 
some  hesitation. 

'  Lord  ha'  mercy !     Wliere  Jentham's  corpse  was  found  ? ' 

The  curate  shuddered.  'I  didn't  see  any  corpse,'  he 
said,  painfully  and  slowly.  '  Instead  of  keeping  to  the  high 
road,  I  struck  out  cross-country.  It  was  only  this  morning 
that  I  heard  of  the  unfortunate  man's  untimely  end.' 

'  You  didn't  meet  anyone  likely  to  have  laid  him  out  ? ' 

•  No !  I  met  no  one.  I  felt  too  ill  to  notice  passers-by, 
but  the  ride  did  me  good,  and  I  feel  much  better  this 
morning.' 

'  You  don't  look  better,'  said  Bell,  with  another  searching 
glance.  '  One  would  think  you  had  killed  the  man  your- 
self!' 

'  Bell ! '  protested  Gabriel,  almost  in  an  hysterical  tone, 
for  his  nerves  were  not  yet  under  control,  and  the  crude 
speeches  of  the  girl  made  him  wince. 

'  Well !  well !  I'm  only  joking.  I  know  you  wouldn't 
hurt  a  fly.  But  you  do  look  ill,  that's  a  fact.  Let  me  get 
you  some  brandy.' 

'  No,  thank  you,  brandy  would  only  make  me  worse. 
Let  me  go  up  and  see  your  mother.' 

'  I  sha'n't  I  You're  not  fit  to  see  anyone.  Go  home  and 
lie  down  till  your  nerves  get  right.  You  can  see  me  after 
five  if  you  like,  for  I'm  going  to  the  dead-house  to  have 
a  look  at  Jentham's  body.' 

'  What !  to  see  the  corpse  of  that  unhappy  man,'  cried 
Gabriel,  shrinking  away. 

•Why  not?'  answered  Bell,  coolly,  for  she  had  that 
peculiar  love  of  looking  on  dead  bodies  characteristic  of 
the  lower  classes.     *I  want  to  see  how  they  killed  him,' 

107 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  Huw  who  killed  him  ? ' 

•The  pcit;on  as  did  it,  silly.  Though  I  don't  know  who 
could  have  shot  him  unless  it  was  that  old  cat  of  a  Mr^ 
Panscy.  Well,  I  can't  stay  here  talkinp;  all  duy,  and  father 
will  be  wondering  what  I'm  up  to.  Vou  go  hon;e  and 
lie  di)vvn,  Gabriel.* 

'  Not  just  now.     I  must  walk  up  to  the  palace.' 

'  Mum !  The  bishop  will  be  in  a  fme  way  about  this 
rnurder.  It's  years  since  anyone  ;,'ot  kilkd  here.  I  hope 
they'll  catch  the  wretch  as  sliot  jen'cham,  though  I  can't 
say  I  liked  him  myself.' 

*I  hope  they  will  catch  him,' replied  (labriel,  mechanic- 
ally. '  Good-day,  Miss  Mosk  I  I  shall  call  and  see  your 
mother  to-moirow.' 

*  Good-day,  Mr  Pendle,  and  thank  you,  oh,  so  much  !' 

This  parti'  ular  form  of  farewell  was  intended  for  the  ears 
of  Mr  Mosk  and  the  general  public,  but  it  failed  in  its 
object  so  far  as  the  especial  person  it  was  intended  to 
impress  was  concernc;!.  When  the  black-clothed  form  of 
Gabriel  vanished,  Mr  Mosk  handed  over  the  business  of 
the  bar  to  an  active  pot-boy,  and  conducted  his  daughter 
bnck  to  the  little  parlour.  Bell  saw  from  his  lowering  brow 
that  her  father  was  suspicious  of  her  lengthened  interview 
with  tlie  curate,  and  was  bent  upon  causing  trouble. 
How'jver,  she  was  not  the  kind  of  girl  to  be  daunted  by 
black  looks,  and,  moreover,  was  conscious  that  her  father 
would  be  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  to  hear  that  she 
was  honouial.ily  engaged  to  the  son  of  T!ishop  Pendle,  so 
she  sat  down  calmly  enough  at  his  gruff  command,  and 
awaited  the  coming  storm.  If  driven  into  a  corner,  she 
intended  to  tell  the  truth,  therefore  she  faced  her  father 
with  tl.e  gieatcst  coolness. 

'What  d'y  mean  by  it?'  cried  Mosk,  bursting  into  angry 
words  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed ;  '  what  d'y  mean, 
you  hussy?' 

•Now,  look  here,  father,'  said  Bell,  quickly,  'you  keep  a 
civil  tongue  in  your  head  or  1  won't  use  mine.  I'm  not  a 
hussy,  and  you  have  no  right  to  call  me  one.* 

•No  right  1     Ain't  I  your  lawfully  begotten  father?' 

•Yes,  you  are,  worse  luck  !  I'd  have  had  a  duke  for  my 
father  if  I'd  been  asked  what  I  wanted.' 

108 


^  Rumour  full  of  Tongues* 

'  Wouldn't  a  bishop  content  you  ? '  sneered  Mosk,  with  a 
scowl  on  his  pimply  face. 

*  You're  talking  of  Mr  Pendle,  are  you  ? '  said  Bell 
wilfully  misunderstanding  the  insinuation. 

*  Yes,  I  am,  you  jade  1  and  I  won't  have  it  I  tell  you  I 
won't ! ' 

*  Won't  have  what,  father  ?     Give  it  a  name.' 

*Why,  this  carrying  on  with  that  parson  chap.  Not  as 
I've  a  word  to  say  against  Mr  Pendle,  because  he's  worth 
a  dozen  of  the  Cargrim  lot,  but  he's  gentry  and  you're 
not!' 

'What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?'  demanded  Bell,  with 
supreme  contempt. 

'This  much,'  raved  Mosk,  clenching  his  fist,  'that  I 
won't  have  you  running  after  him.     D'y  hear?' 

*  I  hear ;  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  rage  the  house  down, 
father.  I'm  not  running  after  Mr  Pendle;  he's  running 
after  me.' 

•That's  just  as  bad.     You'ii  lose  your  character.' 

Bell  fired  up,  and  bounced  to  her  feet.  '  Who  dares  to 
say  a  word  against  my  character  ? '  she  asked,  panting  and 
red. 

'Old  Jarper,  for  one.  He  said  you  went  to  see  Mr 
Pendle  last  night.' 

•So  I  did.' 

'Oh,  you  did,  did  you?  and  here  you've  bin  talking 
ilone  with  him  this  morning  for  the  last  hour.  What  d'y 
mean  by  disgracing  me  ? ' 

*  Disgracing  you  ! '  scoffed  Bell.  '  Your  character  needs  a 
lot  of  disgracing,  doesn't  it?  Now,  be  sensible,  father,'  she 
added,  advancing  towards  him,  '  and  I'll  tell  you  the  truth. 
I  didn't  intend  to,  but  as  you  are  so  unreasonable  I  may 
as  well  set  your  mind  at  rest' 

*  What  are  you  driving  at  ? '  growled  Mosk,  struck  by  her 
placid  manner. 

*  Well,  to  put  the  thing  into  a  nutshell,  Mr  Pendle  is 
going  to  marry  me.' 

*  Marry  you  !     Get  along !  * 

*  I  don't  see  why  you  should  doubt  my  word,'  cried  Bell, 
with  an  angry  flush.  '  I'm  engaged  to  him  as  honourably 
as  any  young  lady  could  be.     He  has  written  me  lots  of 

tog 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

letters  promising  to  make  me  his  wife,  he  has  given  me  a 
ring,  and  we're  only  waiting  till  he's  appointed  to  be  rector 
of  Heathcroft  to  marry.' 

'Well,  I'm  d d,'  observed  Mr  Mosk,  slowly.     'Is  this 

true  ? ' 

'  I'll  show  you  the  ring  and  letters  if  you  like,'  said  Bell, 
tartly,  *  but  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  surprised. 
I'm  good  enough  for  him,  I  hope?' 

'  You're  good-lookin',  I  dessay,  Bell,  but  he's  gentry.' 

'  I'm  going  to  be  gentry  too,  and  I'll  hold  my  own  with 
the  best  of  them.  As  Bishop  Pendle's  daughter-in-law,  I'll 
scratch  the  eyes  out  of  any  of  'em  as  doesn't  give  me  my 
place.' 

Mosk  drew  a  long  breath.  Bishop  Pendle's  daughter-in- 
law,'  he  repeated,  looking  at  his  daughter  with  admiration. 
*  My  stars  !  you  are  a  clever  girl,  Bell.' 

'  I'm  clever  enough  to  get  what  I  want,  father,  so  long  as 
you  don't  put  your  foot  into  it.  Hold  your  tongue  until  I 
tell  you  when  to  speak.  If  the  bishop  knew  of  this  now, 
he'd  cut  Gabriel  off  with  a  shilling.' 

'  Oh,  he  would,  would  he  ? '  said  Mosk,  in  so  strange  a 
tone  that  Bell  looked  at  him  with  some  wonder. 

*  Of  course  he  would,'  said  she,  quietly ;  '  but  when  Gabriel 
is  rector  of  Heathcroft  it  won't  matter.  We'll  then  have 
money  enough  to  do  without  his  consent.' 

'Give  me  a  kiss,  my  girl,'  cried  Mosk,  clasping  her  to 
his  breast,  'You're  a  credit  to  me,  that  you  are,  0\\ 
curse  it !  Bell,  think  of  old  Mother  Pansey !  * 

Father  and  daughter  looked  at  one  another  and  burut 
out  laughing. 


CHAPTER    XV 

THE    GIPSY   RINO 

Almost  at  the  very  time  Mosk  was  congratulating  his 
daughter  on  the  conquest  of  the  curate,  Captain  Pendle  was 
paying  a  visit  to  the  Jenny  Wren  nest.  He  had  only  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  a  Saturday  to  Monday  leave  from  his 
colonel,  who  did  not  approve  of  young  officers  being  too 
long  or  too  often  absent  from  their  duties,  and  was  rejoin- 
ing his  regiment  that  very  evening.  As  soon  as  he  could 
get  away  from  the  palace  he  had  left  his  portmanteau  at 
the  station  and  had  come  up  to  the  Cathedral  Close  to  see 
Mab.  Much  to  his  gratification  he  found  her  alone  in  the 
quaint  old  drawing-room,  and  blessed  the  Providence  which 
had  sent  him  thither  at  so  propitious  an  hour. 

'  Aunty  is  lying  down,'  explained  Mab,  who  looked  rather 
worried  and  pale ;  *  she  has  been  so  upset  over  this  horrid 
murder.' 

'Egad!  it  has  upset  everyone,'  said  George,  throwing 
himself  into  a  chair.  *  My  father  is  so  annoyed  at  such  a 
thing  happening  in  his  diocese  that  he  has  retreated  to  his 
library  and  shut  himself  up.  I  could  hardly  get  him  to  say 
good-bye.  Though,  upon  my  word,'  added  George,  waxing 
warm,  '  I  don't  see  that  the  death  of  a  wretched  tramp  is 
of  such  moment ;  yet  it  seems  to  have  annoyed  everyone.' 

'  Including  yourself,'  said  Mab,  remarking  how  worried 
her  lover  looked,  and  how  far  from  being  his  pleasant, 
natural  self. 

'Yes,  my  dearest,  including  myself.  When  the  bishop 
is  annoyed  my  mother  fidgets  over  him  until  she  makes 
herself  ill.  Knowing  this,  he  is  usually  careful  not  to  let 
her  see  him  when  he  is  out  of  sorts,  but  to-day  he  was  not 
so  discreet,  and  the  consequence  is  that  my  mother  has  an 
attack  of  nerves,  and  is  lying  on  her  sofa  bathed  in  tears, 

III 


The  BisJiop's  Secret 

with  Lucy  in  attendance.  Of  course,  all  this  has  upset  me 
in  mv  turn.' 

'Well,  George,  I  suppose  it  is  natural  that  the  bishop 
should  be  ijut  out,  for  such  a  terrible  crime  has  not  been 
committed  here  for  years.  Indeed,  the  Chronicle  of  last 
week  w.is  remarking  how  free  from  crime  this  place  was.' 

•And  naturally  the  gods  gave  them  the  lie  by  arranging 
a  first-class  murder  straight  away,'  said  George,  with  a  shrug. 
'  But  why  everybody  sl:ouki  be  in  such  a  state  I  can't  see. 
The  palace  is  like  an  undertaker's  establishment  when  busi- 
ness is  dull.  The  only  person  who  seems  at  all  cheerful  is 
that  fellow  Cargrira.' 

'  He  ought  to  be  annoyed  for  the  bishop's  sake.' 

'Faith,  then,  he  isn't,  Mab.  He's  going  about  rubbing 
his  hands  and  grinning  like  a  Cheshire  cat.  I  think  the 
sight  of  him  irritated  me  more  than  the  mourners.  I'm 
glad  to  go  back  to  my  work.' 

'  Are  you  glad  to  leave  me  ? ' 

*No,  you  dear  goose,*  said  he,  taking  her  hand  affection- 
ately; 'that  is  the  bitter  drop  in  my  cup.  However,  I 
have  brought  you  something  to  draw  us  closer  together. 
There ! ' 

*  Oh,  George  ! '  cried  Mab,  looking  in  ecstasy  at  the  ring 
he  had  slipped  on  her  finger,  '  what  a  lovely,  lovely  ring, 
and  what  a  queer  one ! — three  turquoise  stones  set  in  a 
braid  of  silver.     I  never  saw  so  unique  a  pattern.' 

*I  daresay  not.  It's  not  the  kind  of  ring  youll  come 
across  every  day,  and  precious  hard  work  I  had  to  get  it' 

'Did  you  buy  it  in  Beorminster?'  asked  Miss  Arden, 
putting  l^er  head  on  one  side  to  admire  the  peculiar  setting 
of  the  blue  stones. 

*No  ;  I  bought  it  from  Mother  Jael.' 

*  From  Mother  Jael ! — that  old  gipsy  fortune-teller  ?  * 

*  Precisely ;  from  tliat  very  identical  old  Witch  of  Endor. 
I  saw  it  on  her  lean  paw  when  I  was  last  in  Beorminster, 
and  she  came  hovering  round  to  tell  my  fortune.  The 
queer  look  of  it  took  my  fancy,  and  I  determined  to  secure 
it  foi  our  engagement  ring.  However,  the  old  lady  wasn't 
to  be  bribed  into  parting  with  it,  but  last  night  I  rode  out 
to  the  camp  on  Southberry  Common  and  succeeded  in 
getting  it  off  her.     She  is  a  regular  Jew  at  a  bargain,  and 

112 


The  Gipsy  Ring 

haggled  for  an  hour  before  she  would  let  me  have  it  Ulti- 
mately I  gave  her  the  price  she  asked,  and  there  it  is  on 
your  pretty  hand.' 

'  How  sweet  of  you,  George,  to  take  so  much  trouble  1  I 
shall  value  the  ring  greatly  for  your  sake.' 

'And  for  your  own  too,  I  hope.  It  is  a  lucky  ring,  and 
came  from  the  East,  Mother  Jael  said,  in  the  old,  old  days. 
It  looks  rather  Egyptian,  so  perhaps  Cleopatra  wore  it  when 
she  went  to  meet  Anthony  ! ' 

♦Such  nonsense!  but  it  is  a  dear,  lovely  ring,  and  I'll 
wear  it  always.* 

'  I  think  I  deserve  a  kiss  from  you  for  my  trouble,'  said 
George,  drawing  her  lovely,  glowing  face  towards  him. 
•  There,  darling ;  the  next  ring  I  place  on  your  finger  will 
be  a  plain  golden  one,  not  from  the  East,  but  from  an  honest 
Beorminster  jeweller.' 

'But,  George* — Mab  laid  her  head  on  his  breast — 'I 
am  not  sure  if  I  ought  to  accept  it,  really.  Your  father  does 
not  know  of  our  engagement.' 

•  I  intend  to  tell  him  when  I  next  visit  Beorminster,  my 
love.  Indeed,  but  that  he  takes  this  wretched  murder  so 
much  to  heart  I  would  have  told  him  to-day.  Still,  you 
need  not  scruple  to  wear  it,  dearest,  for  your  aunt  and  my 
mother  are  both  agreed  that  you  will  make  me  the  sweetest 
of  wives.* 

'Aunty  is  always  urging  me  to  ask  you  to  tell  your 
father.* 

'Then  you  can  inform  her  that  I'll  do  so  next — why, 
here  is  your  aunt,  my  dear.' 

*  Aunty!'  cried  Mab,  as  Miss  Whichello,  like  a  little 
white  ghost,  moved  into  the  room.  *I  thought  your  head 
was  so  bad.' 

*It  is  better  now,  my  dear,*  replied  the  old  lady,  who 
really  looked  very  ill.     '  How  do  you  do,  Captain  Pendle  ? ' 

*  Hadn't  you  better  call  me  George,  Miss  Whichello  ? ' 

•  No,  I  hadn't,  my  dear  man  ;  at  least,  not  until  your  en- 
gagement with  Mab  is  an  accomplished  fact.' 

'But  it  is  an  accomplished  fact  now,  aunty,' said  Mab, 
■howing  the  ring.  *  Here  is  the  visible  sign  of  our  engage- 
ment.' 

•A  strange  ring,  but  very  charming,*  pronounced   Miss 

H  113 


The  Bishop* s  Secret 

Whichello,  examining   the  jewel.      'But  does  the  bishoo 
know?'  ^ 

'  I  intend  to  tell  him  when  I  come  back  next  week,'  said 
George,  promptly.  '  At  present  he  is  too  upset  with  this 
murder  to  pay  much  attention  to  my  love  aflTairs.' 

•  Upset  with  this  murder  I '  cried  the  little  lady,  dropping 
into  a  chair.  '  I  don't  wonder  at  it  I  am  quite  ill  with 
the  news.' 

'  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why,  aunty.  This  Jentham  tramp 
wasn't  a  relative,  you  know.' 

Miss  Whichello  shuddered,  and,  if  possible,  turned  paler. 
*  He  was  a  human  being,  Mab,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
'and  it  is  terrible  to  think  that  the  poor  wretch,  however 
evil  he  may  have  been,  should  have  come  to  so  miserable 
an  end.     Is  it  known  who  shot  him,  Captain  Pendle?' 

*  No ;  there  are  all  sorts  of  rumours,  of  course,  but  none 
of  them  very  reliable.  It's  a  pity,  too,'  added  George,  re- 
flectively, '  for  if  I  had  only  been  a  little  earlier  in  leaving 
Mother  Jael  I  might  have  heard  the  shot  and  captured  the 
murderer.' 

'What  do  you  mean,  Captain  Pendle?'  cried  Miss 
Whichello,  with  a  start. 

'  Why,  didn't  I  tell  you  ?  No,  of  course  I  didn't :  it  was 
Mab  I  told.' 

'  What  did  you  tell  her  ? '  questioned  the  old  lady,  with 
some  impatience. 

'  That  I  was  on  Southberry  Heath  last  night.' 

'  What  were  you  doing  there  ? ' 

'Seeing  after  that  gipsy  ring  for  Mab,'  explained  George, 
pulling  his  moustache.  'I  bought  it  of  Mother  Jael,  and 
had  to  ride  out  to  the  camp  to  make  the  bargain.  As  I  am 
going  back  into  harness  to-day,  there  wasn't  much  time  to 
lose,  so  I  went  off  last  night  after  dinner,  between  eight  and 
nine  o'clock,  and  the  old  jade  kept  me  so  long  fixing  up  the 
business  that  I  didn't  reach  home  until  eleven.  By  Jove  !  I 
got  a  jolly  ducking ;  looked  like  an  insane  river  god  drip- 
ping with  wet.' 

'  Did  you  see  anything  of  the  murder,  Captain  Pendle  ? ' 

'  No ;  didn't  even  hear  the  shot,  though  that  wasn't  to  be 
wondered  at,  considering  the  row  made  by  rain  and  thunder,' 

'  Where  was  the  body  found  ? ' 

;  14 


The  Gipsy  Ring 

*  Somewhere  in  a  ditch  near  the  high  road,  I  believe.  At 
all  events,  it  wasn't  in  the  way,  or  my  gee  would  have 
tumbled  across  it.' 

Miss  Whichello  reflected.  'The  bishop  was  over  at 
Southberry  yesterday,  was  he  not?'  she  asked. 

•  Yes,  at  a  confirmation  service.  He  rode  back  across  the 
common,  and  reached  the  palace  just  before  I  did — about 
half  an  hour  or  so.' 

•  Did  he  hear  or  see  anything  ?  * 

*Not  to  my  knowledge;  but  the  truth  is,  I  haven't  had 
an  opportunity  of  asking  questions.  He  is  so  annoyed  at 
the  disgrace  to  the  diocese  by  the  committal  of  this  crime 
that  he's  quite  beside  himself.  I  was  just  telling  Mab  about 
it  when  you  came  in.  Six  o'clock  ! '  cried  Captain  George, 
starting  up  as  the  chimes  rang  out.  '  I  must  be  off.  If  I'm 
late  at  barracks  my  colonel  will  parade  me  to-morrow,  and 
go  down  my  throat,  spurs,  boots  and  all.' 

'  Wait  a  moment,  Captain  Pendle,  and  I'll  come  with  you.' 

*  But  your  headache,  aunty  ? '  remonstrated  Mab. 

'  My  dear,  a  walk  in  the  fresh  air  will  do  me  good.  I 
shall  go  with  Captain  Pendle  to  the  station.  Make  your 
adieux,  young  people,  while  I  put  on  my  bonnet  and  cloak.' 

When  Miss  Whichello  left  the  room,  Mab,  who  had  been 
admiring  her  ring  during  the  foregoing  conversation,  was  so 
impressed  with  its  quaint  beauty  that  she  again  thanked 
George  for  having  given  it  to  her.  This  piece  of  politeness 
led  to  an  exhibition  of  tenderness  on  the  part  of  the  depart- 
ing lover,  and  during  the  dragon's  absence  this  foohsh  young 
couple  talked  the  charming  nonsense  which  people  in  their 
condition  particularly  affect.  Realism  is  a  very  good  tning 
in  its  own  way,  but  to  set  down  an  actual  love  conversation 
would  be  carrying  it  to  excess.  Only  the  exaggerated  exalta- 
tion of  mind  attendant  on  love-making  can  enable  lovers  to 
endure  the  transcendentalism  with  which  they  bore  one 
another.  And  then  the  look  which  makes  an  arrow  of  the 
most  trifling  phrase,  the  caress  which  gives  the  merest  glance 
a  most  eloquent  meaning — how  can  prosaic  pen  and  ink 
and  paper  report  these  fittingly?  The  sympathetic  reader 
must  guess  what  George  and  Mab  said  to,  onfe  another.  He 
must  fancy  how  they  said  it,  and  he  or  she  must  see  in  his 
or  her  mind's  eye  how  young  and  beautiful  and  glowing  they 

"5 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

looked  when  Miss  Whichello,  as  the  prose  of  their  poetry, 
walked  into  the  room.  The  dear  old  lady  smiled  approv- 
ingly when  she  saw  their  bright  faces,  for  she  too  had  lived 
in  Arcady,  although  the  envious  gods  had  turned  her  out  of 
it  long  since. 

*  Now,  Captain  Pendle,  when  you  have  done  talking  non- 
sense with  tliat  child  I'm  ready.' 

'  Do  call  me  George,  Miss  Whichello,'  entreated  the 
captain. 

'No,  sir;  not  until  your  father  gives  this  engagement  his 
episcopalian  blessing.     No  nonsense.     Come  along.' 

But  Miss  Whichello's  bark  was  worse  than  her  bite,  for 
she  discreetly  left  the  room,  so  that  the  love-birds  could 
take  a  tender  leave  of  each  other,  and  Captain  Pendle  found 
her  standing  on  the  steps  outside  with  a  broad  smile  on  her 
face. 

'  You  are  sure  you  have  not  forgotten  your  gloves.  Captain 
Pendle?'  she  asked  smilingly. 

'  No,'  replied  George,  innocently,  '  I  have  them  with 
me.' 

'  Oh  !  *  exclaimed  Miss  Whichello,  marching  down  the 
steps  like  a  toy  soldier,  'in  my  youth  young  men  in  your 
condition  always  forgot  their  gloves.' 

'By  Jove !  I  have  left  something  behind  me,  though.' 

'Your  heart,  probably.  Never  mind,  it  is  in  safe  keeping. 
None  of  your  tricks,  sir.  Come,  come  ! '  and  Miss  Which- 
ello marched  the  captain  off  with  a  twinkle  in  her  bright 
eyes.  The  little  old  lady  was  one  of  those  loved  by  the 
gods,  for  she  would  undoubtedly  die  young  in  heart. 

Still,  as  she  walked  with  Captain  Pendle  to  the  station 
in  the  gathering  darkness,  she  looked  worried  and  white. 
George  could  not  see  her  face  in  the  dusk,  and  moreover 
was  too  much  taken  up  with  his  late  charming  interview  to 
notice  his  companion's  preoccupation.  In  spite  of  her 
sympathy.  Miss  Whichello  grew  weary  of  a  monologue  on 
the  part  of  George,  in  which  the  name  of  '  Mab '  occurred 
fifty  times  and  more.  She  was  glad  when  the  train  steamed 
off  with  this  too  happy  lover,  and  promised  to  deliver  all 
kinds  of  unnecessary  messages  to  the  girl  George  had  left 
behind  him. 

'  But  let  them  be  happy  while  they  can,'  murmured  Misi 

ii6 


The  Gipsy  Ring 

Whichello,  as  she  tripped  back  through  the  town.  •  Poor 
souls,  if  they  only  knew  what  I  know.' 

As  Miss  Whichello  had  the  meaning  of  this  enigmatic 
speech  in  her  mind,  she  did  not  think  it  was  necessary  to 
put  it  into  words,  but,  silent  and  pensive,  walked  along  the 
crowded  pavement.  Shortly  she  turned  down  a  side  street 
which  led  to  the  police-station,  and  there  paused  in  a  quiet 
corner  to  pin  a  veil  round  her  head — a  veil  so  thick  that 
her  features  could  hardly  be  distinguished  through  it.  The 
poor  lady  adopted  this  as  a  kind  of  disguise,  forgetting  that 
her  old-fashioned  poke  bonnet  and  quaint  silk  cloak  were 
as  well  known  to  the  inhabitants  of  Beorminster  as  the 
cathedral  itself.  That  early  century  garb  was  as  familiar  to 
the  rascality  of  the  slums  as  to  the  richer  citizens;  even 
the  police  knew  it  weli,  for  they  had  often  seen  its  charit- 
able wearer  by  the  bedsides  of  dying  paupers.  It  thus  hap- 
pened that,  when  Miss  Whichello  presented  herself  at  the 
police-station  to  Inspector  Tinkler,  he  knew  her  at  oiice,  in 
spite  of  her  foolish  little  veil.  Moreover,  in  greeting  her  he 
pronounced  her  name. 

'  Hush,  hush,  Mr  Inspector,'  whispered  Miss  Whichello, 
with  a  mysterious  glance  around.  '  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be 
known  that  I  called  here.' 

'  You  can  depend  upon  my  discretion,  Miss  Whichello, 
ma'am,'  said  the  inspector,  who  was  a  bluff  and  tyrannical 
cx-sergeant.     '  And  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? ' 

Miss  Whichello  looked  round  again.  *I  wish,  Mr 
Inspector,'  said  she,  in  a  very  small  voice,  *to  be  taken 
by  you  to  the  dead-house.' 

•  To  the  dead-house,  Miss  Whichello,  ma'am ! '  said  the 
iron  Tinkler,  hardly  able  to  conceal  his  astonishment,  al- 
though it  was  against  his  disciplinarian  ideas  to  show  emotion. 

'There  is  a  dead  man  in  there,  Mr  Inspector,  whom  I 
knew  under  very  different  circumstances  more  than  twenty 
years  ago.' 

'  Answers  to  the  name  of  Jentham,  perhaps  ? '  suggested 
Mr  Inspector. 

'Yes,  he  called  himself  Jentham,  I  believe.  I — I — I 
wish  to  see  his  body ; '  and  the  little  old  lady  looked 
anxiously  into  Tinkler's  purple  face. 

'Miss  Whichello,  ma'am,'  said  the  ex-sergeant  with  an 

KI7 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

official  air, '  this  request  requires  reflection.  Do  you  know 
the  party  in  question  ? ' 

'  1  knew  him,  as  I  told  you,  more  than  twenty  years  ago. 
He  was  then  a  very  talented  violinist,  and  I  heard  him  play 
frequently  in  London.' 

'  What  was  his  name,  Miss  Whichello,  ma'am?' 

'His  name  then,  Mr  Inspector,  was  Amaru  I* 

•A  stage  name  I  take  it  to  be,  ma'am  1 ' 

'  Yes  !  a  stage  name.' 

♦What  was  his  real  name  ? ' 

•  I  can't  say,'  replied  Miss  Whichello,  in  a  hesitating  voice. 
•  I  knew  him  only  as  Amaru.' 

'Humph!  here  he  called  himself  Jentham.  Do  you 
know  anything  about  this  murder,  Miss  Whichello,  ma'am?' 
and  the  inspector  fixed  a  blood-shot  grey  eye  on  the  thick 
veil. 

'  No  !  no  !  I  know  nothing  about  the  murder !  [  cried 
Miss  Whichello  in  earnest  tones.  '  I  heard  that  this  man 
Jentham  looked  like  a  gipsy  and  was  marked  with  a  scar  on 
the  right  cheek-  From  that  description  I  thought  that  he 
might  be  Amaru,  and  I  wish  to  see  his  body  to  be  certain 
that  I  am  right.' 

•Well,  Miss  \Vhichello,  ma'am,*  said  the  stern  Tinkler, 
after  some  deHberation,  *  your  request  is  out  of  the  usual 
coxu-se  of  things ;  but  knowing  you  as  a  good  and  charitable 
lady,  and  thinking  you  may  throw  some  light  on  this 
mysterious  crime— why,  I'll  show  you  the  corpse  with 
pleasure.' 

'  One  moment,'  said  the  old  lady,  laying  a  detaining  hand 
on  the  inspector's  blue  cloth  sleeve.  *  I  must  tell  you  that 
I  can  throw  no  light  on  the  subject;  if  I  could  I  would.  I 
simply  desire  to  see  the  body  of  this  man  and  to  satisfy 
myself  that  he  is  Amaru.' 

'  Very  good,  Miss  Whichello,  ma'am ;  you  shall  see  it* 

•And  you'll  not  mention  that  I  came  here,  Mr  Inspector.' 

•  I  give  you  my  word,  ma'am — the  word  of  a  soldier.  This 
way.  Miss  Whichello,  this  way.' 

Following  the  rigid  figure  of  the  inspector,  the  little  old 
lady  was  conducted  by  him  to  a  small  building  of  galvanised 
tin  in  the  rear  of  the  police-station.  Several  idlers  were 
hanging  about,  amongst  them  being  Miss  Bell  MoiJc,  who 

xi8 


The  Gipsy  Ring 

was  trying  to  persuade  a  handsome  young  policeman  to 
gratify  her  morbid  curiosity.  Her  eyes  opened  to  their 
widest  width  when  she  recognised  Miss  Whichello's  silk 
cloak  and  poke  bonnet,  and  saw  them  vanish  into  the 
dead-house. 

•  Well  I  never ! '  said  Miss  Mosk.  '  I  never  thought 
she'd  be  fond  of  corpses  at  her  time  of  life,  seeing  as  she'll 
soon  be  one  herself.' 

The  little  old  lady  and  the  inspector  remained  within  for 
five  or  six  minutes.  When  they  came  out  the  tears  were 
falling  fast  beneath  Miss  Whichello's  veil. 

'  Is  that  the  man  ? '  asked  Tinkler,  in  a  low  voice. 

•  Yes ! '  replied  Miss  Whichello ;  *  that  is  the  man  I  knew 
as  Amant' 


"9 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THK   ZEAL   OF    INSPECTOR    TINKLER 

The  str.inge  affair  of  Jer.tham's  murder  continued  to 
occupy  the  attention  of  the  Beorminster  pubUc  through- 
out the  week ;  and  on  the  day  when  the  inquest  was  held, 
popular  excitement  rose  to  fever  heat.  Inspector  Tinkler, 
feeling  that  the  County  expected  him  to  do  great  things 
worthy  of  his  reputation  as  a  zealous  officer,  worked  his 
hardest  to  gather  evidence  likely  to  elucidate  the  mystery 
of  the  death ;  but  in  spite  of  the  most  strenuous  exertions, 
his  efforts  resulted  in  total  failure.  The  collected  details 
proved  to  be  of  the  most  meagre  description,  and  wlien  the 
coroner  sat  on  the  body  nothing  transpired  to  reveal  the 
name,  or  even  indicate  the  identity  of  the  assassin  who  had 
provided  him  with  a  body  to  sit  on.  It  really  seemed  as 
though  the  Southberry  murder  would  end  in  being  relegated 
to  the  list  of  undiscovered  crimes. 

'For  I  can't  work  miracles,'  explained  the  indignant 
Tinkler,  when  reproached  with  this  result,  '  and  somehow 
the  case  has  got  out  of  hand.  The  motive  for  the  shooting 
can't  be  got  at ;  the  pistol  used  ain't  to  be  picked  up,  search 
how  you  may;  and  as  for  the  murdering  villain  who  fired 
it,  if  he  ain't  down  below  where  he  ought  to  be,  I'll  take  my 
oath  as  a  soldier  he  ain't  above  ground.  Take  it  how  you 
will,  thi&gfeise  is  a  corker  and  no  mistake.' 

It  hnflirertainly  occurred  to  Tinkler's  bothered  mind  that 
Miss  Whichello  should  be  called  as  a  witness,  if  only  to 
prove  that  at  one  time  the  dead  man  had  occupied  a  better 
position  in  the  world,  but  after  a  short  interview  with  her 
he  had  abandoned  this  idea.  Miss  Whichello  declared 
that  she  could  throw  no  li-hl  on  the  affair,  and  that  she 
had  lost  sight  of  the  quondam  violinist  for  over  thirty  years. 
Her  recognition  of  him  as  Amaru  had  been  entirely  due  to 

«30 


The  Zeal  of  Inspector  Tinkler 

the  description  of  his  gipsy  looks  and  the  noticeable  cicatrice 
on  his  face ;  and  she  pointed  out  to  Tinkler  that  she  had 
not  seen  the  so-called  Jentham  till  after  his  death  ;  more- 
over, it  was  unlikely  that  events  which  had  occurred  thirty 
years  before  could  have  resulted  in  the  man's  violent  death 
at  the  present  time ;  and  Miss  Whichello  insisted  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  creature's  later  circumstances  or 
acquaintances.  Being  thus  ignorant,  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  her  evidence  would  be  of  any  value,  so  at 
her  earnest  request  Tinkler  held  his  tongue,  and  forebore 
to  summon  her  as  a  witness.  Miss  Whichello  was  greatly 
relieved  in  her  own  mind  when  the  inspector  came  to  this 
conclusion,  but  she  did  not  let  Tinkler  see  her  relief. 

From  Mosk,  the  officer  had  learned  that  the  vagabond 
who  called  himself  Jentham  had  appeared  at  The  Derby 
Winner  some  three  weeks  previous  to  the  time  of  his 
death.  He  bad  given  no  information  as  to  vv'here  he  had 
last  rested,  but,  so  far  as  Mosk  knew,  had  dropped  down 
from  the  sky.  Certainly  his  conversation  when  he  was  in- 
toxicated showed  that  he  had  travelled  a  great  deal,  and 
that  his  past  was  concerned  with  robbery,  and  bloodshed, 
and  lawlessness ;  but  the  man  had  talked  generally  as  any 
traveller  might,  had  refrained  from  mentioning  names,  and 
altogether  had  spoken  so  loosely  that  nothing  likely  to  lead 
to  a  tangible  result  could  be  gathered  from  his  rambling  dis- 
courses. He  had  paid  his  board  and  lodging  for  the  first 
week,  but  thereafter  had  lived  on  credit,  and  at  the  time  of 
his  death  had  owed  Mosk  over  two  pounds,  principally  for 
strong  drink.  Usually  he  slept  at  The  Derby  Winner  and 
loafed  about  the  streets  all  day,  but  at  times  he  went  over 
to  the  gipsy  camp  near  Southberry  and  fraternised  with  the 
Romany.  This  was  the  gist  of  Mosk's  information,  but  he 
added,  as  an  afterthought,  that  Jentham  had  promised  to 
pay  him  when  certain  monies  which  he  expected  came  into 
his  possession. 

'  Who  was  going  to  pay  him  this  money  ? '  asked  Tinkler, 
pricking  up  his  ears. 

'Carn't  y'arsk  me  somethin'  easier?'  growled  Mosk; 
'how  s-fiould  I  know?  He  said  he  was  goin'  to  get  the 
dibs,  but  who  from,  or  where  from,  I  dunno',  for  he  held 
his  tongue  so  far.' 

9  121 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'There  was  no  money  in  the  pockets  of  the  clothes  worn 
by  the  body,'  said  Tinkler,  musingly. 

'I  dessay  not,  Mr  Inspector.  I  don't  b'lieve  the  cove 
was  expecting  any  money,  I  don't.  'Twas  all  moonshine — 
his  talk,  to  make  me  trust  him  for  bed  and  grub,  and  a 
blam  d  fool  I've  bin  doin'  so,*  grumbled  Mosk. 

'  The  pockets  were  turned  inside  out,  though.' 

*0h,  they  was,  was  they,  Mr  Inspector?  Well,  that  does 
look  queer.  But  if  there  was  any  light-fingered  business  to 
be  done,  I  dessay  them  gipsies  hev  somethin'  to  do  with  it.' 

'Did  the  man  g(j  to  tlie  gipsy  camp  on  Sunday  night?' 

*Bell  scs  he  did,'  replied  Mr  Mosk,  'but  I  went  over  to 
Southberry  in  the  arternoon  about  a  little  'oss  as  I'm  sweet 
on,  so  I  don't  know  what  he  did,  save  by  'earsay.' 

Bell,  on  being  questioned  by  the  inspector,  declared  that 
Jenlham  had  loitered  about  the  hotel  the  greater  part  of 
Sunday,  but  had  taken  his  departure  about  five  o'clock. 
He  did  not  say  that  he  was  going  to  the  camp,  but  as  he 
often  paid  a  visit  to  it,  she  presumed  that  he  had  gone  there 
during  that  evening.  'Especially  as  you  found  his  corpse 
on  the  common,  Mr  Tinkler,'  said  Bell,  '  no  doubt  the  poor 
wretch  was  coming  back  from  them  gipsies.' 

'Humph!  it's  not  a  bad  idea,'  said  Tinkler,  scratching 
his  well-shaven  chin.  '  Strikes  me  as  I'll  go  and  look  up 
Mother  Jael.' 

The  result  of  an  interview  with  that  iniquitous  old  bel- 
dame proved  that  Jentham  had  certainly  been  the  guest  of 
the  gipsies  on  Sunday  evening  but  had  returned  to  Beor- 
minster  shortly  after  nine  o'clock.  He  had  stated  that  he 
was  going  back  to  The  Derby  Winner,  and  as  it  was  his 
custom  to  come  and  go  when  he  pleased,  the  Romany  had 
not  taken  much  notice  of  his  departure.  A  vagrant  like 
Jentham  was  quite  independent  of  time. 

'  He  was  one  of  your  lot,  I  suppose  ?'  said  Mr  Inspector, 
taking  a  few  notes  in  his  pocket-book — a  secretive  little 
article  which  shut  with  a  patent  clasp. 

'  Yes,  dearie,  yes !  Lord  bless  'ee,'  mumbled  Mother 
Jael,  blinking  her  cunning  eyes,  'he  was  one  of  the  gentle 
.Romany  sure  enough.' 

•Was  he  with  you  long,  granny?* 

*  Three  week,  lovey,  jus'  three  week.     He  cum  to  Beor- 


The  Zeal  of  Inspector  Tinkler 

minster  and  got  weary  like  of  you  Gentiles,  so  he  made 
hisseif  comforbal  with  us.' 

'Blackguards  to  blackguards,  and  birds  of  a  feather,' 
murmured  Tinkler ;  then  asked  if  Jentham  had  told  Mother 
Jael  anything  about  himself. 

•  He  ! '  screeched  the  old  hag,  '  he  niver  tol'  me  a  word. 
He  cum  an'  he  go'd  ;  but  he  kep  his  red  rag  to  himself,  he 
did.     Duvel !  he  was  a  cunning  one  that  Jentham.' 

•  Was  his  name  Jentham,  mother ;  or  was  it  something 
else  ? ' 

'  He  called  hisseif  so,  dearie,  but  I  niver  knowed  one  of 
that  gentle  Romany  as  had  a  Gentile  name.  We  sticks  to 
our  own  mos'ly.     Job  !  I  shud  think  so.' 

'  Are  you  sure  he  was  a  gipsy  ?  ' 

•Course  I  am,  my  noble  Gorgio !  He  could  patter  the 
calo  jib  with  the  best  of  'um.  He  know'd  lots  wot  the 
Gentiles  don'  know,  an'  he  had  the  eagle  beak  an'  the 
peaked  eye.  Oh,  tiny  Jesus  was  a  Romany  chal,  or  may 
I  die  for  it  I ' 

•  Do  you  know  who  killed  him  ?  *  asked  Tinkler,  abruptly, 
*No,  lovey.     'T weren't  one  of  us,  tho'  you  puts  allays 

the  wust  on  our  backs.     Job !  dog  do  niver  eat  dog,  as  I 
knows,  dearie.* 

•  He  left  your  camp  at  nine  o'clock  ? ' 
•Thereabouts,  my  lamb  ;  jes'  arter  nine  ! ' 

•  Was  he  sober  or  drunk  ?  ' 

•  Betwix'  an'  between,  lovey  ;  he  cud  walk  straight  an'  talk 
straight,  an'  lopk  arter  his  blessed  life.' 

'  Humph !  seems  as  though  he  couldn't,'  said  Mr  In- 
spector, dryly, 

•  Duvel !  that's  a  true  sayin','  said  Mother  Jael,  with  a  nod, 
•  but  I  don'  know  wot  cum  to  him,  dearie.' 

At  the  inquest  Mother  Jael  was  called  as  a  witness,  and 
told  the  jury  much  the  same  story  as  she  had  related  to 
Tinkler,  with  further  details  as  to  the  movements  of  the 
gipsies  on  that  night.  She  declared  that  none  of  the  tribe 
had  left  the  camp ;  that  Jentham  had  gone  away  alone, 
comparatively  sober ;  and  that  she  did  not  hear  of  his  mur- 
der until  late  the  next  day.  In  spite  of  examination  and 
cross-examination,  Mother  Jael  could  give  no  evidence  as 
to  Jentham's  real  name,  or  about  his  past,  or  why  he  was 

9  "3 


The  Bishop' s  Secret 

lingering  at  Beorminster,  *  He  cum'd  an'  he  go'd,'  said 
Mother  Jael,  with  the  air  of  an  oracle,  and  that  was  the 
extent  of  her  information,  delivered  in  a  croaking,  shuffling, 
unconvincing  manner. 

The  carter,  Giles  Crake,  who  had  found  the  body,  wai 
a  stupid  yokel  whose  knowledge  was  entirely  limited  to  his 
immediate  surroundings.  Perched  on  his  cart,  he  had  seen 
the  body  1)  ing  in  a  ditch  half  full  of  water,  on  the  other 
side  of  an  earthen  mound,  which  extended  along  the  side 
of  the  main  road.  The  spot  where  he  discovered  it,  was 
near  Beorminster,  and  about  five  miles  from  the  gipsy  camp. 
The  man  had  been  shot  through  the  heart ;  iiis  pockets  had 
been  emptied  and  turned  inside  out ;  and  evidently  after 
the  murder  the  robber  had  dragged  the  body  over  the 
mound  into  the  ditch.  Giles  had  not  touched  the  corpse, 
being  fearful  of  getting  into  trouble,  but  had  come  on  at 
once  to  Beorminster  to  inform  the  police  of  his  discovery. 

It  was  Dr  Graham  who  had  examined  the  body  when 
first  discovered,  and  according  to  his  evidence  the  man  had 
been  shot  through  the  heart  shortly  before  ten  o'clock  on 
Sunday  night.  The  pistol  had  been  fired  so  close  that  the 
clothing  of  the  deceased  over  the  heart  was  scorched  and 
blackened  with  the  powder  of  the  cartridge.  'And  from 
this  fact,'  added  Graham,  with  one  of  his  shrewd  glances, 
'I  gather  that  the  murderer  must  have  been  known  to 
Jen!  ham  I ' 

•  How  is  that,  doctor?  '  asked  one  of  the  jury. 

'Because  he  must  have  held  him  in  talk  while  contem- 
plating the  crime,  sir.  The  murderer  and  his  victim  must 
almost  have  been  breast  to  breast,  and  while  the  attention 
of  the  latter  was  distracted  in  some  way,  the  assassin  must 
have  shot  him  at  close  quarters.* 

'This  is  all  theory,  Dr  Graham,'  said  the  coroner,  who 
was  a  rival  practitioner. 

'  It  seems  to  me  that  the  whole  case  rests  on  theory,'  re- 
torted Graham,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Before  the  evidence  concerning  the  matter  closed,  In- 
spector Tinkler  explained  how  difficult  it  had  been  to  collect 
even  the  few  details  which  the  jury  had  heard.  He  stated 
also  that  although  the  strictest  search  had  been  made  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  crime,  the  weapon  with  which  it  had  been 

124 


The  Zeal  of  Inspector  Tinkler 

committed  could  not  be  found.  As  the  shooting  had  been 
done  during  a  downfall  of  rain,  the  assassin's  and  his  victim's 
footmarks  were  visible  in  the  soft  clay  of  the  roadway; 
also  there  were  the  marks  of  horses'  hoofs,  so  it  was  prob- 
able that  the  murderer  had  been  mounted.  If  this  were  so, 
neither  gipsies  nor  harvesters  could  have  killed  the  wretched 
man,  as  neither  the  one  lot  nor  the  other  possessed  horses 
and—' 

'The  gipsies  have  horses  to  draw  their  caravans  !'  inter- 
rupted a  sharp-looking  juryman. 

♦  To  draw  their  caravans  I  admit,'  said  the  undaunted 
Tinkler,  '  but  not  to  ride  on.  Besides,  I  would  re.-^iind  you, 
Mr  Jobson,  as  Mother  Jael  declares,  that  none  of  her  crowd 
left  the  camp  on  that  night.' 

'  Oh,  she'd  declare  anything,'  muttered  Jobson,  who  had 
no  great  opinion  of  Tinkler's  brains.  'Have  the  footmarks 
in  the  road  been  measured  ? ' 

'  No,  they  haven't,  Mr  Jobson  !  * 

'Then  they  should  have,  Mr  Inspector;  you  can  tell  a  lot 
from  a  footmark,  as  I've  heard.  It's  what  the  French  call 
the  Bertillon  system  of  identification,  that's  what  it  is.' 

'  I  don't  need  to  go  to  France  to  learn  my  business,' 
said  Tinkler,  tartly,  'and  if  I  did  get  the  measurements  of 
them  footmarks,  how  am  I  to  know  which  is  which — 
Jentham's  or  his  murderer's?  and  how  can  I  go  round  the 
whole  of  Beorminster  to  see  whose  feet  fit  'em?  I  ask  you 
that,  Mr  Jobson,  sir.' 

At  this  point,  judging  that  the  discussion  had  gone  far 
enough,  the  coroner  intervened  and  said  that  Mr  In- 
spector had  done  his  best  to  unravel  a  very  difhcult  case. 
That  he  had  not  succeeded  was  the  fault  of  the  case  and 
not  of  Mr  Inspector,  and  for  his  part,  he  thought  that  the 
thanks  of  the  Beorminster  citizens  were  due  to  the  efforts 
of  so  zealous  and  intelligent  an  officer  as  Tinkler.  This 
sapient  speech  reduced  the  recalcitrant  Jobson  to  silence, 
but  he  still  held  to  his  opinion  that  the  over-confident 
Tinkler  had  bungled  the  matter,  and  in  this  view  he  was 
silently  but  heartily  supported  by  shrewd  Dr  Graham,  who 
privately  considered  that  Mr  Inspector  Tinkler  was  little 
better  than  an  ass.  However,  he  did  not  give  vent  to  this 
offensive  opinion. 

125 


Tke  Bishop's  Secret 

The  summing-up  of  the  coroner  called  for  little  remark. 
He  was  a  worthy  country  doctor,  with  as  much  brains  as 
would  cover  a  sixpence,  and  the  case  was  beyond  him  in 
every  way.  His  remarks  to  the  jury — equally  stupid,  with 
the  exception  of  Jobson — were  to  the  effect  that  it  was 
evidently  impossible  to  find  out  who  had  killed  Jcntham, 
that  the  man  was  a  quarrelsome  va^qabond  who  probably  had 
many  enemies  ;  thrt  no  doubt  while  crossing  the  common  in 
a  drunken  humo".'  he  had  nut  with  someone  as  bad  as  him 
self,  and  had  r-nne  to  high  words  with  him;  and  that  the 
unknown  P'.in,  being  armed,  had  no  doubt  shot  the  deceased 
in  a  fit  o*"  rage.  '  He  robbed  the  body,  I  daresay,  gentlemen,' 
concluded  the  coroner,  'and  then  threw  it  into  the  ditch 
to  conceal  the  evidence  of  his  crime.  As  we  don't  know 
the  man,  and  are  never  likely  to  know  him,  I  can  only 
suggest  that  you  should  find  a  verdict  in  accordance  with 
the  evidence  supplied  to  you  by  the  zeal  of  Inspector 
Tinkler.  Man  has  done  all  he  can  to  find  out  this  Cain, 
but  his  efforts  have  been  vain,  so  we  must  leave  the  i)unish- 
ment  of  the  murderer  to  God ;  and  as  Holy  Scripture  says 
that  "murder  will  out,"  I  have  no  doubt  that  some  day  the 
criminal  will  be  brought  to  justi<  e.* 

After  this  wise  speech  it  was  not  surprising  that  the  jury 
brought  in  a  verdict,  'That  the  deceased  Jentham  met  with 
a  violent  death  at  the  hands  of  some  person  or  persons 
unknown,'  that  being  the  kind  of  verdict  which  juries  without 
brains — as  in  the  present  instance — generally  give.  Having 
thus  settled  the  matter  to  their  own  bovine  satisfaction,  the 
jury  went  away  after  having  been  thanked  for  their  zeal  by 
the  coroner.     That  gentleman  was  great  on  zeal. 

'Hum!  Hum!  Hum!'  said  Dr  Graham  to  himself, 
'there's  too  much  zeal  altogether.  I  wonder  what  M.  de 
Talleyrand  would  have  thought  of  these  cabbages  and  their 
zeal.  Well,  Mr  Inspector,'  he  added  aloud,  '  so  you've 
finished  off  the  matter  nicely.' 

•We  have  done  our  best,  Dr  (jiaham,  sir.' 

'And  you  don't  know  who  killed  the  man?' 

'  No,  sir,  I  don't ;  and  what's  more,  I  don't  believe  any- 
body ever  will  know.' 

'  Humph,  that's  your  opinion,  is  it?  Do  you  read  much, 
Mr  Inspector?' 

126 


The  Zeal  of  Inspector  Titikler 

•  A  novel  at  times,  sir.     I'm  fond  of  a  good  novel.' 
•Then  let  me  recommend  to  )'Our  attention  the  works  of 

a  French  author,  by  name  Caboriau.  There's  a  man  in 
them  called  Lecoq,  who  would  have  found  out  the  truth, 
Mr  Inspector.' 

•  Fiction,  Dr  Graham,  sir  !  .  Fiction.' 

'  True  enough,  Mr  Inspector,  but  most  fiction  is  founded 
on  fact.* 

•  Well,  sir,'  said  Tinkler,  with  a  superior  wise  smile,  '  I 
should  like  to  see  our  case  in  the  hands  of  your  Mr 
Lecoq.' 

'So  should  I,  Mr  Inspector,  or  in  the  hands  of  Sherlock 
Holmes.  Bless  me,  Tinkler,  they'd  do  almost  as  much  as 
you  have  done.  It  is  a  pity  that  you  are  not  a  character 
in  fiction,  Tinkler.' 

•  Why,  sir  ?     Why,  may  I  ask  ?  * 

'Because  your  author  might  have  touched  you  up  in 
weak  parts,  and  have  gifted  you  with  some  brains.  Good- 
day,  Mr  Inspector.' 

While  Graham  walked  away  chuckling  at  his  banter  of 
this  red-tape  official,  the  official  himself  stood  gasping  like 
a  fish  out  of  the  water,  and  trying  to  realise  the  insult  levelled 
at  his  dignity.  Jobson — a  small  man — sidled  round  to  the 
front  of  him  and  made  a  comment  on  the  situation. 

'  It  all  comes  of  your  not  measuring  them  footmarks,' 
said  Jobson.  '  In  detective  novels  the  clever  fellows  always 
do  that,  but  you'd  never  be  put  into  a  book,  not  you  !' 

'  You'll  be  put  into  jail,'  cried  the  outraged  inspector. 

'  It's  more  than  Jentham's  murderer  will  if  you've  got  the 
catching  of  him,'  said  Jobson,  and  walked  ofif. 


««? 


CHAPTER    XVII 

A    CLERICAL     DETECTIVX 

All  this  time  Mr  Michael  Cargrim  had  not  been  idle.  On 
hearing  of  the  murder,  his  thoughts  had  immediately  centred 
themselves  on  the  bishop.  To  say  that  the  chaplain  was 
shocked  is  to  exj^ress  his  feelings  much  too  mildly ;  he  was 
horrified !  thunderstruck !  terrified !  in  fact,  there  was  no 
word  in  the  English  tongue  strong  enough  to  explain  his 
superlative  state  of  mind.  It  was  characteristic  of  tlie 
man's  malignant  nature  that  he  was  fully  prepared  to  believe 
in  Dr  Pendle's  guilt  without  hearing  any  evidence  for  or 
against  this  opinion.  He  was  aware  that  Jentharn  had 
been  cognisant  of  some  weighty  secret  concerning  the 
bishop's  past,  for  the  concealing  of  which  he  was  to  have 
been  bribed,  and  when  the  report  of  the  murder  reached 
the  chaplain's  ears,  he  qi;'  e  believed  that  in  place  of  paying 
the  sum  agreed  upon,  Dr  Pendle  had  settled  accounts  with 
the  blackmailer  by  shooting  him.  Cargrim  took  this  ex- 
treme view  of  the  matter  for  two  reasons ;  firstly,  because 
he  had  gathered  from  the  bishop's  movements,  and 
Jentham's  talk  of  Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  that  a  meeting  on 
Southberry  Heath  had  been  arranged  between  the  pair; 
secondly,  because  no  money  was  found  on  the  dead  body, 
which  would  have  been  the  case  had  the  bribe  been  paid. 
To  the  circumstantial  evidence  that  the  turned-out  pockets 
pointed  to  robbery,  Mr  Cargrim,  at  the  moment,  strangely 
enough,  paid  no  attention. 

In  considering  the  case,  Cargrim's  wish  was  very  much 
the  father  to  the  thought,  for  he  desired  to  believe  in  the 
bishop's  guilt,  as  the  knowledge  of  it  would  give  him  a 
great  deal  of  power  over  his  ecclesiastical  superior.  If  ho 
could  only  collect  sufficient  evidence  to  convict  Dr  Pendle 
of  murdering  Jentham,  and  could  show  him  the  links  in  the 

128 


A  Clerical  Detective 

chain  of  circumstances  by  which  he  arrived  at  such  a  con- 
clusion, he  had  little  doubt  but  that  the  bishop,  to  induce 
him  to  hide  the  crime,  would  become  his  abject  slave.  To 
gain  such  an  immense  power,  and  use  it  for  the  furtherance 
of  his  own  interests,  Cargrim  was  quite  prepared  to  com- 
pound a  possible  felony;  so  the  last  case  of  the  bishop 
would  be  worse  than  the  first.  Instead  of  being  in  Jentham's 
power  he  would  be  in  Cargrim's;  and  in  place  of  taking  the 
form  of  money,  the  blackmail  would  assume  that  of  influence. 
So  Mr  Cargrim  argued  the  case  out ;  and  so  he  determined 
to  shape  his  plans  :  yet  he  had  a  certain  hesitancy  in  taking 
the  first  step.  He  had,  as  he  firmly  believed,  a  knowledge 
that  Dr  Pendle  was  a  murderer ;  yet  although  the  possession 
of  such  a  secret  gave  him  unlimited  power,  he  was  afraid 
to  use  it,  for  its  mere  exercise  in  the  present  lack  of 
material  evidence  to  prove  its  truth  was  a  ticklish  job. 
Cargrim  felt  like  a  man  gripping  a  comet  by  its  tail, 
and  doubtful  whether  to  hold  on  or  let  go.  However, 
this  uncertain  state  of  things  could  be  remedied  by  a  strict 
examination  into  the  circumstances  of  the  case;  therefore 
Cargrim  set  his  mind  to  searching  them  out.  He  had  been 
present  at  the  inquest,  but  none  of  the  witnesses  brought 
fonrard  by  the  bungling  Tinkler  had  made  any  statement 
likely  to  implicate  the  bishop.  Evidently  no  suspicion  con- 
necting Dr  Pendle  with  Jentham  existed  in  the  minds  of 
police  or  publia  Cargrim  could  have  set  such  a  rumour 
afloat  by  a  mere  hint  that  the  dead  man  and  the  bishop's 
strange  visitor  on  the  night  of  the  reception  had  been  one 
and  the  same;  but  he  did  not  think  it  judicious  to  do  this. 
He  wanted  the  bishop's  secret  to  be  his  alone,  and  the 
more  spotless  was  Dr  Pendle's  public  character,  the  more 
anxious  he  would  be  to  retain  it  by  becoming  Cargrim's 
slave  in  order  that  the  chaplain  might  be  silent  regarding 
his  guilt.  But  to  obtain  such  an  advantage  it  was  necessary 
for  Cargrim  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  way  in  which  Dr 
Pendle  had  committed  the  crime.  And  this,  as  he  was 
obliged  to  work  by  stealth,  was  no  easy  task. 

After  some  cogitation  the  wily  chaplain  concluded  that  it 

would  be  best  to  hear  the  general  opinion  of  the  Beor- 

minsler  gossips  in  order  to  pick  up  any  stray  scraps  of 

information  likely  to  be  of  use  to  him.      Afterwards  he 

I  129 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

ir.tended  to  call  on  Mr  Inspector  Tinkler  and  hear  oflici- 
ally  the  more  immediate  details  of  the  case.  iJy  what  he 
heard  from  the  police  and  the  social  prattlers,  Cargrim 
hoped  to  be  guided  in  constructing  his  case  against  Dr 
Pendle.  Then  there  was  the  bishop's  London  journey  ;  the 
bishop's  cheque-book  with  its  missing  butt;  the  bishop's 
journey  to  and  from  Southberry  on  the  day  and  night  when 
the  murder  had  been  committed  ;  all  these  facts  would  go 
far  to  implicate  him  in  the  matter.  Also  Cargrim  desired 
to  find  the  missing  pistol,  and  the  papers  which  had 
evidently  been  taken  from  the  corpse.  This  last  idea  was 
purely  theoretical,  as  was  Cargrim's  fancy  that  Jentham's 
power  over  Dr  Pendle  had  to  uo  with  certain  papers.  He 
argued  from  the  fact  that  the  pockets  of  the  dead  man's 
clothes  liad  been  turned  inside  out.  Cargrim  did  not  be- 
lieve that  the  bishop  had  paid  the  blackmail,  therefore  the 
pockets  could  not  have  been  searched  for  the  money ;  the 
more  so,  as  no  possible  robber  could  have  known  that 
Jentham  would  be  possessed  of  a  sum  worth  committing 
murder  for  on  that  night.  On  the  other  hand,  if  Jentham 
had  possessed  papers  which  inculpated  the  bishop  in  any 
crime,  it  was  probable  that,  after  shooting  him,  the  assassin 
had  searched  for,  and  had  obtained,  the  papers  to  which  he 
attached  so  much  value.  It  was  the  bishop  who  had  turned 
the  pockets  inside  out,  and,  as  Cargrim  decided,  for  the  above 
reason.  Certainly,  from  a  commonscnse  point  of  view,  Car- 
grim's  theory,  knowing  what  he  did  know,  was  feasible 
enough. 

Having  thus  arrived  at  a  point  where  it  was  necessary  to 
transmute  thought  into  action,  Mr  Cargrim  assumed  his 
best  clerical  uniform,  his  tallest  and  whitest  jam-pot  collar, 
and  drew  on  a  pair  of  delicate  lavender  gloves.  Spotless 
and  neat  and  eminently  sanctimonious,  the  chaplain  took 
his  demure  way  towards  Mrs  Pansey's  residence,  as  he 
jueiged  very  rightly  that  she  would  be  the  most  likely  person 
to  afford  him  possible  inf(jriuation.  'i'he  archdeacon's 
widow  lived  on  the  outskirts  of  iJeorminster,  in  a  gloomy 
old  barrack  of  a  mansion,,  surrounded  by  a  large  garden, 
which  in  its  turn  was  girdled  by  a  high  red  brick  wall  with 
broken  glass  bottles  on  the  top,  as  though  Mrs  Pansey  dwelt 
in  a  gaol,  and  was  on  no  account  to  be  allowed  out.     Had 

130 


A  Clerical  Detective 

such  a  thing  been  possible,  the  whole  of  Beorminster 
humanity,  rich  and  poor,  would  willingly  have  subscribed 
large  sums  to  build  the  wall  higher,  and  to  add  spikes  to 
the  glass  bottles.  Anything  to  keep  Mrs  Pansey  in  her 
gaol,  and  prevent  her  issuing  forth  as  a  social  scourge. 

Into  the  gaol  Mr  Cargrim  was  admitted  with  certain 
solemnity  by  a  sour-faced  footman  whose  milk  of  human 
kindness  had  turned  acid  in  the  thunderstorms  of  Mrs 
Pansey's  spite.  This  engaging  Cerberus  conducted  the 
chaplain  into  a  large  and  sepulchral  drawing-room  in  which 
the  good  lady  and  Miss  Norsham  were  partaking  of  after- 
noon tea.  Mrs  Pansey  wore  her  customary  skirts  of  solemn 
black,  and  looked  more  gloomy  than  ever ;  but  Daisy,  the 
elderly  sylph,  brightened  the  room  with  a  dress  of  white 
muslin  adorned  with  many  little  bows  of  white  ribbon,  so 
that — sartorially  speaking — she  was  very  young,  and  very 
virginal,  and  quite  angelical  in  looks.  Both  ladies  were 
pleased  to  see  their  visitor  and  received  him  warmly  in  their 
several  ways;  that  is,  Mrs  Pansey  groaned  and  Daisy  giggled. 

•  Oh,  how  very  nice  of  you  to  call,  dear  Mr  Cargrim,'  said 
the  sylph.  '  Mrs  Pansey  and  I  are  positively  dying  to  hear 
all  about  this  very  dreadful  inquest.     Tea?' 

'  Thank  you  ;  no  sugar.  Ah  ! '  sighed  Mr  Cargrim,  taking 
his  cup,  *  it  IS  a  terrible  thing  to  think  that  an  inquest  should 
be  held  in  Beorminster  on  the  slaughtered  body  of  a  human 
being.     Bread  and  butter  !  thank  you  ! ' 

'  It's  a  judgment,'  declared  Mrs  Pansey,  and  devoured  a 
buttery  little  square  of  toast  with  another  groan  louder  than 
the  first. 

•Oh,  do  tell  me  who  killed  the  poor  thing,  Mr  Cargrim,' 
gushed  Daisy,  childishly. 

♦  No  one  knows.  Miss  Norsham.  The  jury  brought  in  a 
verdict  of  wilful  murder  against  some  person  or  persons  un- 
known. You  must  excuse  me  if  I  speak  too  technically,  but 
those  are  the  precise  words  of  the  verdict.' 

'  And  very  silly  words  they  are  ! '  pronounced  the  hostess, 
ex  cathedra;  'but  what  can  you  expect  from  a  parcel  of 
trading  fools  ? ' 

'But,  Mrs  Pansey,  no  one  knows  who  killed  this  man.' 

'They  should  find  out,  Mr  Cargrim.' 

'  They  have  tried  to  do  so  and  have  failed  ! ' 

131 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

•That  shows  that  what  I  say  is  true.  Police  and  jury  are 
fools,'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  with  the  triumphant  air  of  one 
clinching  an  argument 

*  Oh,  dear,  it  is  so  very  strange  ! '  said  the  fair  Daisy.  '  I 
wonder  really  what  could  have  been  the  motive  for  the 
murder  ? ' 

*  As  the  pockets  were  turned  inside  out,'  said  Mr  Cargrim, 
*it  is  believed  that  robbery  was  the  motive.' 

'  Rubbish  ! '  said  Mrs  Pansey,  shaking  her  skirts ;  *  there  is 
a  deal  more  in  this  crime  than  meets  the  eye.' 

'  I  believe  general  opinion  is  agreed  upon  that  point,'  said 
the  chaplain,  dryly. 

*  What  is  Miss  VVhichello's  opinion  ? '  demanded  the  cVch- 
deacon's  widow.  Cargrim  could  not  suppress  a  start.  It 
was  strange  that  Mrs  Pansey  should  allude  to  Miss 
Whichello,  when  he  also  had  his  suspicions  regarding 
her  knowledge  of  the  dead  man. 

'  I  don't  see  what  she  has  to  do  with  it,'  he  said  quietly, 
with  the  intention  of  arriving  at  Mrs  Pansey's  meaning. 

*  Ah !  no  more  can  anyone  else,  Mr  Cargrim.  But  I 
know  !  I  know  ! ' 

'  Know  what  ?  dear  Mrs  Pansey.  Oh,  really !  you  are  not 
going  to  say  that  poor  Miss  Whichello  fired  that  horrid 
pistol.' 

'  I  don't  say  anything,  Daisy,  as  I  don't  want  to  figure 
in  a  Hi. el  action  ;  but  I  should  like  to  know  why  Aliss 
Whichello  went  to  the  dead-house  to  see  the  body.* 

'Did  she  go  there?  are  you  sure?'  exclaimed  the  chap- 
lain, much  surpr.scd. 

'  I  can  believe  my  own  eyes,  can't  I ! '  snapped  Mrs  Pansey. 
•I  saw  her  myself,  for  I  was  down  near  the  police-station  the 
other  evening  on  one  of  my  visits  to  the  poor.  There,  while 
returning  home  by  the  dead-house,  I  saw  that  hussy  of  a  Bell 
Mosk  making  eyes  at  a  policeman,  and  I  recognised  Miss 
Whichello  for  ail  her  veil.' 

*  Did  she  wear  a  veil  ? ' 

'  I  should  think  so ;  and  a  very  thick  one.  But  if  she 
wants  to  do  underhand  things  she  should  change  her 
bonnet  and  cloak.     I  knew  them  !  don't  tell  me ! ' 

Certainly,  Miss  Whichello's  actions  seemed  suspicious; 
and,  anxious  to  learn  their  meaning  from  the  lady  herself, 

133 


A  Clerical  Detective 

Cargrim  mentally  determined  to  visit  the  Jenny  Wren  house 
after  leaving  Mrs  Pansey,  instead  of  calling  on  Miss  Tancred, 
as  he  had  intended.  However,  he  was  in  no  hurry ;  and, 
asking  Daisy  for  a  second  cup  of  tea  to  prolong  his  stay, 
went  on  drawing  out  his  hostess. 

'  How  very  strange ! '  said  he,  in  allusion  to  Miss  Whichello. 
*  I  wonder  why  she  went  to  view  so  terrible  a  sight  as  that 
man's  body.' 

'  Ah ! '  replied  Mrs  Pansey,  with  a  shake  of  her  turban, 
•we  all  want  to  know  that.  But  I'll  find  her  out;  that 
I  will' 

'But,  dear  Mrs  Pansey,  you  don't  think  sweet  Miss 
Whichello  has  anything  to  do  with  this  very  dreadful 
murder  ? ' 

•  I  accuse  no  one,  Daisy.     I  simply  think  ! ' 

'What  do  you  think?*  questioned  Cargrim,  rather 
sharply. 

'  I  think — what  I  think,'  was  Mrs  Pansey's  enigmatic 
response;  and  she  shut  her  mouth  hard.  Honestly 
speaking,  the  artful  old  lady  was  as  puzzled  by  Miss 
Whichello's  visit  to  the  dead-house  as  her  hearers,  and 
she  could  bring  no  very  tangible  accusation  against  her, 
but  Mrs  Pansey  well  knew  the  art  of  spreading  scandal, 
and  was  quite  satisfied  that  her  significant  silence — about 
nothing — would  end  in  creating  something  against  Miss 
Whichello.  When  she  saw  Cargrim  look  at  Daisy,  and 
Daisy  look  back  to  Cargrim,  and  remembered  that  their 
tongues  were  only  a  degree  less  venomous  than  her  own, 
she  was  quite  satisfied  that  a  seed  had  been  sown  likely  to 
produce  a  very  fertile  crop  of  baseless  talk.  The  prospect 
cheered  her  greatly,  for  Mrs  Pansey  hated  Miss  Whichello 
as  much  as  a  certain  personage  she  quoted  on  occasions  is 
said  to  hate  holy  water. 

'You  are  quite  an  Ear  of  Dionysius,'  said  the  chaplain, 
with  a  complimentary  smirk  ;  '  everything  seems  to  come  to 
you.* 

'  I  make  it  my  business  to  know  what  is  going  on,  Mr 
Cargrim,'  replied  the  lady,  much  gratified,  'in  order  to  stem 
the  torrent  of  infidelity,  debaucliery,  lying  and  flattery  which 
rolls  through  this  city.' 

*  Oh,  dear  me !  how  strange  it  is  that  the  dear  bishop  saw 

»33 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

nothing  of  this  frightful  murder,'  exclaimed  Daisy,  wlio  had 
been  retkcting.  '  He  rode  back  from  Southberry  late  on  Sun- 
day night,  I  hear.' 

'His  lordship  saw  nothing,  I  am  sure,'  said  Cargrim, 
hastily,  for  it  was  not  his  design  to  incriminate  Dr  Pendle ; 
•if  he  had,  he  would  have  mentioned  it  to  me.  And  )ou 
know,  Miss  Norsham,  there  was  tpite  a  tempest  on  that 
night,  so  even  if  his  lordship  had  passed  near  the  scene  of 
the  murder,  he  could  not  have  heard  the  shot  of  the  assassin 
or  the  cry  of  the  victim.  The  rain  and  thunder  would  in  all 
human  probability  have  drowned  both.' 

'  Besides  which  his  lordship  is  neither  sharp-eared  nor 
observant,'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  spitefully;  *a  man  less  fitted 
to  be  a  bishop  doesn't  live.' 

'  Oh,  dear  Mrs  Pansey  !  you  are  too  hard  on  him.' 

'  Rubbish  !  don't  tell  me  !  What  about  his  sons,  Mr 
Cargrim?     Did  they  hear  anything?' 

'  I  don't  quite  follow  you,  Mrs  Pansey.* 

'  Bless  the  man,  I'm  talking  English,  I  hope.  Both 
George  and  Gabriel  Pendle  were  on  Southberry  Heath 
on  Sunday  night.' 

'Are  you  sure  !'  cried  the  chaplain,  doubtful  if  he  heard 
aright. 

'  Of  course  I  am  sure,'  snorted  the  lady.  *  Would  I  speak 
so  positively  if  I  wasn't?  No,  indeed.  I  got  the  news  irom 
my  page-boy.' 

'  Really  !  from  that  sweet  little  Cyril ! ' 

'  Yes,  from  that  worthless  scamp  Cyril !  Cyril,'  repeated 
Mrs  Pansey,  with  a  snort,  'the  idea  of  a  pauper  like  Mrs 
Jennings  giving  her  brat  such  a  fine  name.  Well,  it  was 
Cyril's  night  out  on  Sunday,  and  he  did  not  come  home  till 
late,  and  then  made  his  appearance  very  wet  and  dirty.  He 
told  me  that  he  had  been  on  Southberry  Heath  and  had 
been  almost  knocked  into  a  ditch  by  Mr  Pendle  galloping 
past.  I  asked  him  which  Mr  Pendle  had  been  out  riding 
on  Sunday,  and  he  declared  that  he  had  seen  them  both — 
George  about  eight  o'clock  when  he  was  on  the  Heath,  and 
Gabriel  shortly  after  nine,  as  he  was  coming  home.  I  gave 
the  wretched  boy  a  good  scolding,  no  supper,  and  a  psalm 
to  commit  to  memory  ! ' 

'  George  and  Gabriel  Pendle  riding  on  Southberry  Heath 

»34 


A  Clerical  Delective 

on  that  night,'  said  the  chaplain,  thoughtfully;   'it  is  very 
strange.' 

'  Strange  ! '  almost  shouted  Mrs  Pansey,  *  it's  worse  than 
strange — it's  Sabbath-breaking — and  their  father  riding  also. 
No  wonder  the  mystery  of  iniquity  doth  work,  when  those 
high  in  the  land  break  the  fourth  commandment;  are 
you  going,  Mr  Cargrim  ? ' 

'Yes!  I  am  sorry  to  leave  such  charming  company,  but 
I  have  an  engagement.  Good-bye,  Miss  Norsham  ;  your  tea 
was  worthy  of  the  fair  hands  which  made  it.  Good-bye, 
Mrs  Pansey.  Let  us  hope  that  the  authorities  will  discover 
and  punish  this  unknown  Cain.' 

'  Cain  or  Jezebel,'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  darkly,  '  it's  one  or 
the  other  of  them.' 

Whether  the  good  lady  meant  to  indicate  Miss  Whichello 
by  the  second  name,  Mr  Cargrim  did  not  stay  to  inquire,  as 
he  was  in  a  hurry  to  see  her  himself  and  find  out  why  she 
had  visited  the  dead-house.  He  therefore  bowed  and 
smiled  himself  out  of  Mrs  Pansey's  gaol,  and  walked  as 
rapidly  as  he  was  able  to  the  little  house  in  the  shadow  of 
the  cathedral  towers.  Here  Ic  found  Miss  Whichello  all 
alone,  as  Mab  had  gone  o  l  to  tea  with  some  friends. 
The  little  lady  welcomed  him  warmly,  quite  ignorant  of 
what  a  viper  she  was  inviting  to  warm  itself  on  her  hearth, 
and  visitor  and  hostess  were  soon  chattering  amicably  on 
the  most  friendly  of  terms. 

Gradually  Cargrim  brought  round  the  conversation  to 
Mrs  Pansey  and  mentioned  that  he  had  been  paying  her 
a  visit. 

'I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourself,  I'm  sure,  Mr  Cargrim,' 
said  Miss  Whichello,  good-humouredly,  'but  it  gives  me 
no  pleasure  to  visit  Mrs  Pansey.' 

'  Well,  do  you  know,  Miss  Whichello,  I  find  her  rather 
amusing.  She  is  a  very  observant  lady,  and  converses 
wittily  about  what  she  observes.' 

'  She  talks  scandal,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.' 

'  I  am  afraid  that  word  is  rather  harsh,  Miss  Whichello.' 

*  It  may  be,  sir,  but  it  is  rather  appropriate — to  Mrs 
Pansey  !     Well !  and  who  was  she  talking  about  to-day  ? ' 

'  About  several  people,  my  dear  lady ;  yourself  amongst 
the  number.' 

135 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

•  Indeed  1 '  Miss  Whichello  drew  her  little  body  up  stiffly. 
•And  had  she  any  thin.,'  unpleasant  to  say  about  me?' 

*  Oh,  not  at  all.  She  only  remarked  that  she  saw  you 
visiting  the  dead-house  last  week.' 

Miss  Whichello  let  fall  her  cup  with  a  crash,  and  turned 
pale.     'How  does  she  know  that?'  was  her  sharp  question. 

'She  saw  you,'  repeated  the  chaplain;  'and  in  spite  of 
your  veil  she  recognised  you  by  your  cloak  and  bonnet.' 

'  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  Mrs  Pansey  for  the  interest  siie 
takes  in  my  business,'  said  Miss  Whichello,  in  her  most 
stately  manner.  '  I  did  visit  the  Beorminster  dead-house, 
'Ihere ! ' 


X9& 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE  CHAPLAIN   ON   THE  WARPATH 

Miss  Whichello's  frank  admission  that  she  had  visited  the 
dead-house  rather  disconcerted  Mr  Cargrim.  From  the 
circumstance  of  the  veil,  he  had  presumed  that  she  wished 
her  errand  there  to  be  unknown,  in  which  case  her  conduct 
would  have  appeared  highly  suspicious,  since  she  was  sup- 
posed to  know  nothing  about  Jentham  or  Jentham's  murder. 
But  her  ready  acknowledgment  of  the  fact  apparently 
showed  that  she  had  nothing  to  conceal.  Cargrim,  for  all 
his  acuteness,  did  not  guess  that'of  two  evils  Miss  Whichello 
had  chosen  the  least.  In  truth,  she  did  not  wish  her  visit 
to  the  dead-house  to  be  known,  but  as  Mrs  Pansey  was 
cognisant  of  it,  she  judged  it  wiser  to  neutraUse  any  possible 
harm  that  that  lady  could  do  by  admitting  the  original 
statement  to  be  a  true  one.  This  honesty  would  take  the 
wind  out  of  Mrs  Pansey's  sails,  and  prevent  her  from  distort- 
ing an  admitted  fact  into  a  fiction  of  hinted  wickedness. 
Furthermore,  Miss  Whichello  was  prepared  to  give  Cargrim 
a  sufficient  reason  for  her  visit,  so  that  he  might  not  invent 
one.  Only  by  so  open  a  course  could  she  keep  the  secret 
of  her  thirty-year-old  acquaintance  with  the  dead  man.  As 
a  rule,  the  little  old  lady  hated  subterfuge,  but  in  this  case 
her  only  chance  of  safety  lay  in  beating  Pansey,  Cargrim  and 
Company  with  their  own  weapons.  And  who  can  say  that 
she  was  acting  wrongly  ? 

'  Yes,  Mr  Cargrim,'  she  repeated,  looking  him  directly  in 
the  face,  •  Mrs  Pansey  is  right.  I  was  at  the  dead-house 
and  I  went  to  see  the  corpse  of  the  man  Jentham.  I  sup- 
pose you — and  Mrs  Pansey — wonder  why  I  did  so  ?  * 

*  Oh,  my  dear  lady ! '  remonstrated  the  embarrassed 
chaplain,  'by  no  means;  such  knowledge  is  none  oS  oar 
business — that  is,  none  of  my  business.' 

10  *37 


The  Bishop s  Secret 

'You  have  made  it  ycur  business,  however!'  observed 
Miss  Whichello,  dryly,  'else  you  would  scarcely  have  in- 
formed nie  of  Mrs  I'ansey's  unwarrantable  remarks  on  my 
private  affairs.  ^Vell,  Mr  Cargrim,  I  sup;  <ise  you  know 
that  this  tramp  attacked  my  niece  on  the  high  road.' 

•Yes,  Miss  Whichello,  I  know  that.' 

'Very  good  ;  as  I  considered  that  the  man  was  a  danger- 
ous character  I  thought  that  he  should  be  compelled  to 
leave  Beorniinster;  so  I  went  to  The  Derby  Winner  on 
the  night  that  you  met  me,  in  order  to — ' 

'To  see  Mrs  Mosk!'  interrupted  Cargrim,  softly,  hoping 
to  entrap  her. 

'  In  order  to  see  Mrs  Mosk,  and  in  order  to  see  Jentham. 
I  intended  to  tell  him  that  if  he  did  not  leave  Beorminster 
at  once  that  I  should  inform  the  police  of  his  attack  on 
Miss  Arden.  Also,  as  I  was  willing  to  give  him  a  chance 
of  reforming  his  conduct,  I  intended  to  supply  him  with  a 
small  surn  for  his  iuimediate  departure.  On  that  night, 
however,  I  did  not  see  him,  as  he  had  gone  over  to  the 
gipsy  camp.  When  I  heard  that  he  was  dead  I  could 
scarcely  believe  it,  so,  to  set  my  mind  at  rest,  and  to  satisfy 
myself  that  Mab  would  be  in  no  further  danger  from  his 
insolence  when  she  walked  abroad,  I  visited  the  dead- 
house  and  saw  his  body.  That,  Mr  Cargrim,  was  the  sole 
reason  for  my  visit ;  and  as  it  concerned  myself  alone,  I 
wore  a  veil  so  as  not  to  provoke  remark.  It  seems  that  I 
was  wrong,  since  Mrs  Pansey  has  been  discussing  me. 
However,  I  hope  you  will  set  her  mind  at  rest  by  telling 
her  what  I  have  told  you.' 

'  Really,  my  dear  Miss  Whichello,  you  are  very  severe;  I 
assure  you  all  this  explanation  is  needless.' 

*  Not  while  Mrs  Pansey  has  so  venomous  a  tongue,  Mr 
Cargrim.  She  is  quite  capable  of  twisting  my  innocent 
desire  to  assure  myself  that  Mab  was  safe  from  this  man 
into  some  extraordinary  statement  without  a  word  of  truth 
in  it.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  Mrs  Pansey  had  hinted  to 
you  that  I  had  killed  this  creature.' 

As  this  was  precisely  what  the  archdeacon's  widow  had 
done,  Cargrim  fflt  horribly  uncomfortable  under  the  scorn 
of  Miss  Whichello's  justifiable  indignation.  He  grew  red, 
and  smiled  feebly,  and  murmured  weak  apologies  ;  all  of 

138 


The  Chaplain  on  the  Wartath 

which  Miss  Whichello  saw  and  heard  with  supreme  con- 
tempt. Mr  Cargrim,  by  his  late  tittle-tattling  conversation, 
had  fallen  in  her  good  opinion ;  and  she  was  not  going  to 
let  him  off  without  a  sharp  rebuke  for  his  unfounded 
chatter.  Cutting  short  his  murmurs,  she  proceeded  to  nip 
in  the  bud  any  further  reports  he  or  Mrs  Pansey  might 
spread  in  connection  with  the  murder,  by  explaining  much 
more  than  was  needful. 

'And  if  Mrs  Pansey  should  hear  that  Captain  Pendle 
was  on  Southberry  Heath  on  Sunday  night,'  she  con- 
tinued, '  I  trust  that  she  will  not  accuse  him  of  shooting  the 
man,  although  as  I  know,  and  you  know  also,  Mr  Cargrinj, 
she  is  quite  capable  of  doing  so.' 

'Was  Captain  Pendle  on  Southberry  Heath?'  asked 
Cargrim,  who  was  already  acquainted  with  this  fact,  although 
he  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell  Miss  Whichello  so. 
'  You  don't  say  so  ? ' 

'  Yes,  he  was !  He  rode  over  to  the  gipsy  camp  to 
purchase  an  engagement  ring  for  Miss  Arden  from  Mother 
Jael.     That  ring  is  now  on  her  finger.' 

'  So  Miss  Arden  is  engaged  to  Captain  Pendle,'  cried 
Cargrim,  in  a  gushing  manner.  *I  congratulate  you,  and 
her,  and  him.' 

'Thank  you,  Mr  Cargrim,'  said  Miss  Whichello,  stiffly. 

*  I  suppose  Captain  Pendle  saw  nothing  of  Jentham  at 
the  gipsy  camp  ? ' 

*  No  !  he  never  saw  the  man  at  all  that  evening.' 

*  Did  he  hear  the  shot  fired  ? ' 

'  Of  course  he  did  not ! '  cried  Miss  Whichello,  wrathfully. 
*How  could  he  hear  with  the  noise  of  the  storm?  'You 
might  as  well  ask  if  the  bishop  did  \  he  was  on  Southberry 
Heath  on  that  night.' 

'  Oh,  yes,  but  he  heard  nothing,  dear  lady  ;  he  told  me  so.' 

*You  seem  to  be  very  interested  in  this  murder,  Mr 
Cargrim,'  said  the  little  lady,  with  a  keen  look. 

'  Naturally,  everyone  in  Beorminster  is  interested  in  it. 
I  hope  the  criminal  will  be  captured.' 

*  I  hope  so  too ;  do  you  know  who  he  is  ?  * 

*  I  ?  my  dear  lady,  how  should  I  know  ? ' 

*  I  thought  Mrs  Pansey  might  have  told  you  ! '  said  Miss 
Whichello,  coolly.    *  She  knows  all  that  goes  on,  and  a  good 

139 


Tlie  Bishop's  Secret 

deal  that  doesn't  But  you  can  tell  her  that  both  I  and 
Captain  Pendle  are  innocent,  althou.i,'h  I  did  visit  the  dead- 
house,  and  although  he  was  on  Southberry  Heath  when  the 
crime  was  committed.' 

'  You  are  very  severe,  dear  lady  !'  said  Cargrim,  rising  to 
take  his  leave,  for  he  was  anxious  to  extricate  himself  from 
his  very  uncomfortable  and  undignified  position. 

•Solomon  was  even  more  severe,  Mr  Cargrim.  He  said, 
•♦  Burning  lips  and  a  wicked  heart  are  like  a  potsherd  covered 
with  silver  dross."  I  fancy  there  were  Mrs  Panseys  in  those 
days,  Mr  Cargrim.' 

In  the  face  of  this  choice  proverb  Mr  Cargrim  beat  a 
hast>'  retreat.  Altogether  Miss  Whichello  was  too  much 
for  him  ;  and  for  once  in  his  life  he  was  at  a  loss  how  to 
gloss  over  his  defeat.  Not  until  he  was  in  Tinkler's  office 
did  he  recover  his  feeling  of  superiority.  With  a  man — 
especially  with  a  social  inferior — he  felt  that  he  could  deal  j 
but  who  can  contend  with  a  woman's  tongue?  It  is  her 
sword  and  shield ;  her  mouth  is  her  bow  ;  her  words  are 
the  arrows ;  and  the  man  who  hopes  to  withstand  such  an 
armoury  of  deadly  weapons  is  a  superfine  idiot.  Cargrim, 
not  being  one,  had  run  away ;  but  in  his  rage  at  being 
compelled  to  take  flight,  he  almost  exceeded  Mrs  Pansey 
in  hating  the  cause  of  it.  Miss  Whichello  had  certainly 
gained  a  victory,  but  she  had  also  made  an  enemy. 

'  So  the  inquest  is  over,  Mr  Inspector,'  said  the  ruffled 
Cargrim,  smoothing  his  plumes. 

'Over  and  done  with,  sir;  and  the  corpse  is  now  six  feet 
under  earth.' 

'A  sad  end,  Mr  Inspector,  and  a  sad  life.  To  be  a 
wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth ;  to  be  violently  removed 
when  sinning;  to  be  buried  at  the  expense  of  an  alien 
pari-h ;  what  a  fate  for  a  baptised  Christian.' 

'  Don't  you  take  on  so,  Mr  Cargrim,  sir ! '  said  Tinkler, 
grimly.  'There  was  precious  little  relisiion  about  Jentham, 
and  he  was  buried  in  a  much  better  fashion  than  he  de- 
served, and  not  by  the  parish  either.' 

Cargrim  looked  up  suddenly.  'Who  paid  for  his  funeral 
then  ? ' 

'  A  charitable  la — person,  sir,  whose  name  I  am  not  at 
liberty  to  tell  anyone,  at  her  own  request.' 

140 


The  Chaplain  on  the  Warpath 

'  At  her  own  request,*  said  the  chaplain,  noting  Tinkler's 
slips  and  putting  two  and  two  together  with  wondrous 
rapidity.     *Ah,  Miss  Whichello  is  indeed  a  good  lady.' 

•  Did  you  —  do  you  know — are  you  aware  that  Miss 
Whichello  buried  him,  sir  ? '  stammered  the  inspector,  con- 
siderably astonished. 

*I  have  just  come  from  her  house,*  replied  Cargrim, 
answering  the  question  in  the  affirmative  by  implication. 

•  Well,  she  asked  me  not  to  tell  anyone,  sir ;  but  as  she 
told  you,  I  s'pose  I  can  say  as  she  buried  that  corpse  with  a 
good  deal  of  expense.* 

'  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  seeing  that  she  took  an  in- 
terest in  the  wretched  creature,'  said  Cargrim,  delicately 
feeling  his  way.  *  I  trust  that  the  sight  of  his  body  in  the 
dead-house  didn't  shock  her  nerves.' 

'Did  she  tell  you  she  visited  the  dead-house?'  asked 
Tinkler,  his  eyes  growing  larger  at  the  extent  of  the  chap- 
lain's information. 

'  Of  course  she  did,'  replied  Cargrim,  and  this  was  truer 
than  most  of  his  remarks. 

Tinkler  brought  down  a  heavy  fist  with  a  bang  on  his 
desk.  *Then  I'm  blest,  Mr  Cargrim,  sir,  if  I  can  under- 
stand what  she  meant  by  asking  me  to  hold  my  tongue.' 

'  Ah,  Mr  Inspector,  the  good  lady  is  one  of  those  rare 
spirits  who  "  do  good  by  stealth  and  blush  to  find  it  fame." ' 

'  Seems  a  kind  of  silly  to  go  on  like  that,  sir  1 ' 

*We  are  not  all  rare  spirits.  Tinkler.' 

'  I  don't  know  what  the  world  would  be  if  we  were,  Mr 
Cargrim,  sir.  But  Miss  Whichello  seemed  so  anxious  that 
I  should  hold  my  tongue  about  the  visit  and  the  burial 
that  I  can't  make  out  why  she  talked  about  them  to  you  or 
to  anybody.' 

•  I  cannot  myself  fathom  her  reason  for  such  unnecessary 
secrecy,  Mr  Inspector;  unless  it  is  that  she  wishes  the 
murderer  to  be  discovered.' 

'Well,  she  can't  spot  him,'  said  Tinkler,  emphatically, 
'for  all  she  knows  about  Jentham  is  thirty  years  old.' 

Cargrim  could  scarcely  suppress  a  start  at  this  unexpected 
information.  So  Miss  Whichello  did  know  something  about 
the  dead  man  after  all ;  and  doubtless  her  connection  with 
Jentham  had  to  do  with  the  secret  of  the  bishop.     Cargrim 

141 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

fell  that  he  was  on  the  eve  of  an  imT)ort;int  discovery;  for 
Tinkler,  thinking  that  Miss  \Vhichcllo  liad  made  a  confidant 
of  the  chaplain,  babbled  on  innocently,  without  guessing 
that  his  attentive  listener  was  making  a  base  use  of  him. 
'I'he  shrug  of  the  shoulders  with  which  Cargrira  commented 
on  his  last  remark  made  Tinkler  talk  further. 

'  Besides ! '  said  he,  expansively,  '  what  does  Miss  Which- 
ello  know  ?  Only  that  the  man  was  a  violinist  thirty  years 
ago,  and  that  l^e  called  himself  Amaru.  Those  details  don't 
throw  any  light  on  the  murder,  Mr  Cargrim,  sir.' 

The  chaplam  mentally  noted  the  former  name  and 
former  profession  of  Jcntham  and  shook  his  head.  'Such 
information  is  utterly  useless,'  he  said  gravely,  'and  the 
people  with  whom  Amaru  alias  Jentham  associated  then 
are  doubtless  all  dead  by  this  time.' 

'  Well,  Miss  Whichello  didn't  mention  any  of  his  friends, 
sir,  V)ut  I  daresay  it  wouldn't  be  much  use  if  she  did.  Be- 
yond the  man's  former  name  and  business  as  a  fiddler  ?he 
told  me  nothinc;.  I  suppose,  sir,  she  didn't  tell  you  any- 
thing likely  to  help  us?' 

'  No  !  I  don't  think  the  past  can  help  the  present,  Mr 
Tinkler.     But  what  is  your  candid  opinion  about  this  case  ?' 

'  I  think  it  is  a  mystery,  Mr  Cargrim,  sir,  and  is  likely  to 
remain  one.' 

•You  don't  anticipate  that  the  murderer  will  be  found?' 

*No!'  replied  Mr  Inspector,  gruffly.     'I  don't.' 

'Cannot  Mosk,  with  whom  Jentham  was  lodging,  en- 
lighten you?' 

Tinkler  shook  his  head.  *  Mosk  said  that  Jentham  owed 
him  money,  and  promised  to  pay  him  this  week;  but  that 
I  believe  was  all  moonshine.' 

•  But  Jentham  might  have  expected  to  receive  money, 
Mr  Inspector?' 

'Not  he,  Mr  Cargrim,  sir.  He  knew  no  one  here  who 
would  lend  or  give  him  a  farthing.  He  had  no  money  on 
him  when  his  corpse  was  found  !' 

'  Yet  the  body  had  been  robbed  ! ' 

'  Oh,  yes,  the  body  was  robbed  sure  enough,  for  we  found 
the  pockets  turned  inside  out.  But  the  murderer  only  took 
the  rubbish  a  vagabond  was  likely  to  have  on  him.' 

'Were  any  papers  taken,  do  you  think,  Mr  Inspector?' 
142 


The  Chaplain  on  the  Warpath 

'  Papers  ! '  echoed  Tinkler,  scratching  his  head.  '  What 
papers  ? ' 

'  Well ! '  said  Cargrim,  shirking  a  true  explanation,  '  papers 
likely  to  reveal  his  real  name  and  the  reason  of  his  haunt- 
ing Beorminster.' 

'  I  don't  think  there  could  have  been  any  papers,  iVIr 
Cargrim,  sir.  If  there  had  been,  we'd  ha'  found  'em.  The 
murderer  wouldn't  have  taken  rubbish  like  that.' 

'But  why  was  the  man  killed? '  persisted  the  cliaplain. 

*  He  was  killed  in  a  row,'  said  Tinkler,  decisively,  '  that's 
my  theory.  Mother  Jael  says  that  he  was  half  seas  over 
when  he  left  the  camp,  so  I  daresay  he  met  some  labourer 
who  quarrelled  with  him  and  used  his  pistol.' 

*  But  is  it  likely  that  a  labourer  would  have  a  pistol  ? ' 

*  Why  not  ?  Those  harvesters  don't  trust  one  another, 
and  it's  just  as  hkely  as  not  that  one  of  them  would  keep  a 
pistol  to  protect  his  property  from  the  other.' 

*  Was  search  made  for  the  pistol  ? ' 

•Yes,  it  was,  and  no  pistol  was  found.  I  tell  you  what, 
Mr  Cargrim,'  said  Tinkler,  rising  in  rigid  militniy  fashion, 
•  it's  my  opinion  diat  there  is  too  much  tall  talk  about  this 
case.  Jentham  was  shot  in  a  drunken  row,  and  the 
murderer  has  cleared  out  of  the  district.  That  is  the 
whole  explanation  of  the  matter.' 

'I  daresay  you  are  rij^iit,  Mr  Inspector,'  sighed  Cargrim, 
putting  on  his  hat.  '  We  are  all  apt  to  elevate  the  common- 
place into  the  romantic' 

'Or  make  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole  hill,  which  is  plain 
English,'  said  Tinkler.     '  Good-day,  Mr  Cargrim.' 

'Good-day,  Tinkler,  and  many  thanks  for  your  lucid 
statement  of  the  case.  I  have  no  doubt  that  his  lordship, 
the  bishop,  will  take  your  very  sensible  view  of  the  matter.' 

As  it  was  now  late,  Mr  Cargrim  returned  to  the  palace, 
not  ill  pleased  with  his  afternoon's  work.  He  had  learned 
that  Miss  Whichello  had  visited  the  dead-house,  that  she 
had  known  the  dead  man  as  a  violinist  under  the  name  of 
Amaru,  and  had  buried  him  for  old  acquaintance  sake  at 
her  own  expense.  Also  he  had  been  informed  that  Captain 
Pendle  and  his  brother  Gabriel  had  been  on  Southberry 
Heath  on  the  very  night,  and  about  the  very  time,  when 
the  man  had  been  shot ;  so,  with  all  these  materials,  Mr 

143 


The  Bishops  Secret 

Cargrim  hoped  sooner  or  later  to  build  up  a  very  pretty 
case  against  the  bishop.  If  Miss  Whichello  was  mixed  up 
with  the  matter,  so  much  the  better.  At  this  moment  Mr 
Cart^rim's  meditation  was  broken  in  upon  by  the  voice  of 
Dr  Graham. 

'You  are  the  very  man  I  want,  Cargrim.  The  bishop 
has  written  askini:;  me  to  call  to-night  and  see  him.  Just 
tell  hiin  that  I  am  engaged  this  evening,  but  that  I  will 
attend  on  him  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o'clock.' 

•  Oh !  ho ! '  soliloquised  Cargrim,  when  the  doctor, 
evidently  in  a  great  hurry,  went  off,  '  so  his  lordship  waDtl 
to  see  Dr  Graham.     I  wonder  what  that  is  for?' 


144 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE    bishop's    request 

Whatever  Dr  Pendle  may  have  thought  of  the  Southberry 
murder,  he  kept  his  opinion  very  much  to  himself.  It  is 
true  that  he  expressed  himself  horrified  at  the  occurrence 
of  so  barbarous  a  crime  in  his  diocese,  that  he  spoke 
pityingly  of  the  wretched  victim,  that  he  was  interested  in 
hearing  the  result  of  the  inquest,  but  in  each  case  he  was 
guarded  in  his  remarks.  At  first,  on  hearing  of  the  crime, 
his  face  had  betrayed — at  all  events,  to  Cargrim's  jealous 
scrutiny — an  expression  of  relief,  but  shortly  afterwards — 
on  second  thoughts,  as  one  might  say — there  came  into  his 
eyes  a  look  of  apprehension.  That  look  which  seemed  to 
expect  the  drawing  near  of  evil  days  never  left  them  again, 
and  daily  his  face  grew  thinner  and  whiter,  his  manner 
more  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  He  seemed  as  uncomfortable 
as  was  Damocles  under  the  hair-suspended  sword. 

Other  people  besides  the  chaplain  noticed  the  change, 
but,  unlike  Cargrim,  they  did  not  ascribe  it  to  a  conscious- 
ness of  guilt,  but  to  ill  health.  Mrs  Pendle,  who  was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  her  husband,  and  was  well  informed  with 
regard  to  the  newest  treatment  and  the  latest  fashionable 
medicine,  insisted  that  the  bishop  suffered  from  nerves 
brought  on  by  overwork,  and  plaintively  suggested  that  he 
should  take  the  cure  for  them  at  some  German  Bad.  But 
the  bishop,  sturdy  old  Briton  that  he  was,  insisted  that  so 
long  as  he  could  keep  on  his  feet  there  was  no  necessity 
for  his  women-folk  to  make  a  fuss  over  him,  and  declared 
that  it  was  merely  the  change  in  the  weather  which  caused 
him — as  he  phrased  it — to  feel  a  trifle  out  of  sorts. 

*  It  is  hot  one  day  and  cold  the  next,  my  dear,'  be  said 
in  answer  to  his  wife  remonstrances,  *  as  if  the  clerk  of  the 
K  145 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

weather  didn't  know  his  own  mind.  How  can  you  expect 
thehverofa  fat,  lazy  cild  man  like  me  not  to  rcsuond  to 
these  sudden  changes  of  temperature? ' 

'  Fat,  bishop  ! '  cried  Mrs  Pendle,  in  vexed  tones.  '  Vou  are 
noi  fat ;  you  have  a  fine  figure  for  a  man  of  your  age.  And 
as  to  lazy,  there  is  no  one  in  the  Church  who  works  harder 
than  you  do.     No  one  can  deny  that.'   ' 

'You  flatter  me,  my  love  ! ' 

'  You  under-rate  yourself,  my  dear.  But  if  it  is  liver,  why 
not  try  Woodhall  Spa?  I  believe  the  treatment  there  is 
very  drastic  and  beneficial.  Why  not  go  there,  bishop? 
I'm  sure  a  holiday  would  do  you  no  harm.' 

*I  haven't  time  for  a  holiday.  Amy.  My  liver  must  get 
well  as  best  it  can  while  I  go  about  my  daily  duties — that  is 
if  it  is  my  liver.' 

'  I  don't  believe  it  is,'  remarked  Mrs  Pendle ; '  it  is  nerves, 
my  dear,  nothing  else.  You  hardly  eat  anything,  you  start 
at  your  own  shadow,  and  at  times  you  are  too  irritable  for 
words.  Go  to  Droitwich  for  those  unruly  nerves  of  yours, 
and  try  brine  baths.' 

'  I  rather  think  you  should  go  to  Nauheim  for  that  weak 
heart  of  yours,  fny  love,'  replied  Dr  Pendle,  arranging  his 
wife's  pillows ;  '  in  fact,  I  want  you  and  Lucy  to  go  there  next 
month.' 

'  Indeed,  bishop,  I  shall  do  no  such  thing !  You  are  not 
fit  to  look  after  yourself.' 

'Then  Graham  shall  look  after  me.* 

*  Dr  Graham ! '  echoed  Mrs  Pendle,  with  contempt.  *  He  is 
old-fashioned,  and  quite  ignorant  of  the  new  medicines. 
No,  bishop,  you  must  go  to  Droitwich.' 

'And  you,  my  dear,  to  Nauheim  !' 

At  this  point  matters  came  to  an  issue  between  them,  for 
Mrs  Pendle,  who  like  most  people  possessed  a  fund  of  what 
may  be  called  nervous  obstinacy,  positively  refused  to  leave 
England.  On  his  side,  the  bishop  insisted  more  eagerly 
than  was  his  custom  that  Mrs  Pendle  should  undergo  the 
Schott  treatment  at  Nauheim.  For  some  time  the  argu- 
ment was  maintained  with  equal  determination  on  both 
sides,  until  Mrs  Pendle  concluded  it  by  bursting  into  tears 
and  protesting  that  her  husband  did  not  understand  her 
in  the  least.     Whereupon,  as  the  only  way  to  soothe  her, 

146 


The  Bishop's  Request 

the   bishop    admitted    that    he    was    in    the   wrong  and 
apologised. 

All  the  same,  he  was  determined  that  his  wife  should  gc 
abroad,  and  thinking  she  might  yield  to  professional  per- 
suasions, he  sent  for  Dr  Graham.  By  Cargrim  a  message 
was  brought  that  the  doctor  would  be  with  the  bishop  next 
morning,  so  Pendle,  not  to  provoke  further  argument,  said 
nothing  more  on  the  subject  to  his  wife.  But  here  Lucy 
came  on  the  scene,  and  seemed  equally  as  averse  as  her 
mother  to  Continental  travel.  She  immediately  entered 
her  protest  against  the  proposed  journey. 

'Mamma  is  better  now  than  ever  she  was,'  said  Lucy, 
'and  if  she  goes  to  Nauheim  the  treatment  will  only 
weaken  her.' 

'  It  will  strengthen  her  in  the  long  run,  Lucy.  I  hear 
wonderful  accounts  of  the  Nauheim  cures.' 

'Oh,  papa,  every  Bad  says  that  it  cures  more  patients 
than  any  other,  just  as  every  Bad  advertises  that  its  v.aters 
have  so  much  per  cent,  more  salt  or  sodium  or  iodine,  or 
whatever  they  call  it,  than  the  rest.  Besides,  if  you  really 
think  mamma  should  try  this  cure  she  can  have  it  at  Bath 
or  in  London.  They  say  it  is  just  as  good  in  either  place 
as  at  Nauheim.* 

'I  think  not,  Lucy;  and  I  wish  you  and  your  mother  to 
go  abroad  for  a  month  or  two.  My  mind  is  made  up  on 
the  subject.* 

'  Why,  papa,'  cried  Lucy,  playfully,  'one  would  think  you 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  us.' 

The  bishop  winced  and  turned  a  shade  paler.  '  You 
are  talking  at  random,  my  dear,'  he  said  gravely  ;  '  if  it  were 
not  for  your  mother's  good  I  should  not  deprive  myself 
of  your  society.' 

'Poor  mother!'  sighed  Lucy,  and  'poor  Harry,'  she 
added  as  an  afterthought. 

'  There  need  be  no  "  poor  Harry  "  about  the  matter,'  said 
Dr  Pendle,  rather  sharply.  '  If  that  is  what  is  troubling  you, 
I  daresay  Harry  will  be  glad  to  escort  you  and  your  mother 
over  to  Germany.' 

Lucy  became  a  rosy  red  with  pleasure.  '  Do  you  really 
hink  Harry  will  like  to  come  ? '  she  asked  in  a  fluttering 
voice. 

147 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  He  is  no  true  lover  if  he  doesn't,*  replied  her  father, 
with  a  wan  smile.  '  Now,  run  away,  my  love,  I  am  busy. 
To-morrow  wo  shall  settle  the  question  of  your  going.' 

When  to-morrow  came,  Cargrim,  all  on  fire  with  curiosity, 
tried  his  hardest  to  stay  in  the  library  when  Dr  Graham 
came  ;  but  as  the  bishop  wished  his  interview  to  be  private, 
he  intimated  the  fact  pretty  plainly  to  his  obsequious 
chaplain.  In  fact,  he  spoke  so  sharply  that  Cargrim  felt 
distinctly  aggrieved;  and  but  for  the  trnined  control  he 
kept  of  his  temper,  might  have  said  sonietiiing  to  show  Dr 
Pendle  the  suspicions  he  entertained.  However,  the  time 
was  not  yet  ripe  for  him  to  place  all  his  cards  on  the  table, 
for  he  had  not  yet  conceived  a  plausible  case  against  the 
bishop.  He  was  on  the  point  of  pronouncing  the  name 
'  Amaru '  to  see  if  it  would  startle  Dr  Pendle,  but  re- 
membering his  former  failures  when  he  had  introduced  the 
name  of  '  Jenthani '  to  the  bishop's  notice,  he  was  wise 
enough  to  hold  his  tongue.  It  would  not  do  to  arouse  Dr 
Pendle's  suspicions  until  he  could  accuse  him  plainly  of 
murdering  the  man,  and  could  produce  evidence  to  sub- 
stantiate his  accusation.  The  evidence  Cargrim  wished  to 
obtain  was  tliat  of  the  cheque  butt  and  the  pistol,  but  as 
yet  he  did  not  see  his  way  how  to  become  possessed  of 
either.  Pending  doing  so,  he  hid  himself  in  the  grass  like 
the  snake  he  was,  ready  to  strike  his  unsuspecting  bene- 
factor when  he  could  do  so  with  safety  and  effect. 

In  accordance  with  his  resolution  on  this  point,  Mr 
Cargrim  was  meek  and  truckling  while  he  was  with  the 
bishop,  and  when  Dr  Graham  was  announced  he  sidled 
out  of  the  library  with  a  bland  smile.  Dr  Graham  gave 
him  a  curt  nod  in  response  to  his  gracious  greeting,  and 
closed  the  door  himself  before  he  advanced  to  meet  the 
bishop.  Nay,  more,  so  violent  was  his  dislike  to  good  Mr 
Cargrim,  that  he  made  a  few  remarks  about  that  apostle 
before  coming  to  the  object  of  his  visit. 

'  If  you  were  a  student  of  I^vater,  bishop,'  said  he, 
rubbing  his  hands,  'you  would  not  tolerate  that  Jesuitical 
Rodin  near  you  for  one  moment' 

'  Jesuitical  Rodin,  d'^cior !     I  do  not  understand.* 

'Ah,  that  comes  of  not  reading  French  novels,  1117 
lord  1 ' 

148 


The  Bishop's  Request 

•  I  do  not  approve  of  the  moral  tone  of  French  fiction,' 
said  the  bishop,  stiffly. 

•  Few  of  our  English  Pharisees  do,'  replied  Graham,  dryly ; 
*  not  that  I  rank  you  among  the  hypocrites,  bishop,  so  do 
not  take  ray  remark  in  too  hteral  a  sense.' 

•  I  am  not  so  thin-skinned  or  self-conscious  as  to  do  so, 
Graham.     But  your  meaning  of  a  Jesuitical  Rodin  ?  ' 

•  It  is  explained  in  The  Wandering  Jew  of  Eugene  Sue, 
bishop.  You  should  read  that  novel  if  only  to  arrive  by 
analogy  at  the  true  character  of  your  chaplain.  Rodin  is 
one  of  the  personages  in  the  book,  and  Rodin,'  said  the 
doctor  decisively,  '  is  Cargrim  ! ' 

•  You  are  severe,  doctor.  Michael  is  an  estimable  young 
man.' 

•  Michael  and  the  Dragon  !  *  said  Graham,  playing  upon 
the  name.  '  Humph  !  he  is  more  like  the  latter  than  the 
former.  Mr  Michael  Cargrim  is  the  young  serpent  as 
Satan  is  the  old  one.' 

•  I  always  understood  that  you  considered  Satan  a  myth, 
doctor ! ' 

'  So  I  do  ;  so  he  is ;  a  bogey  of  the  Middle  and  Classical 
Ages  constructed  out  of  Pluto  and  Pan.  But  he  serves 
excellently  well  for  an  illustration  of  your  pet  parson.' 

•  Cargrim  is  not  a  pet  of  mine,'  rejoined  the  bishop, 
coldly,  'and  I  do  not  say  that  he  is  a  perfect  character. 
Still,  he  is  not  bad  enough  to  be  compared  to  Satan.  You 
speak  too  hurriedly,  doctor,  and,  if  you  will  pardon  my  say- 
ing so,  too  irreligiously.' 

*I  beg  your  pardon,  I  forgot  that  I  was  addressing  a 
bishop.  But  as  to  that  young  man,  he  is  a  bad  and 
dangerous  character.' 

•  Doctor,  doctor,'  protested  the  bishop,  raising  a  depre- 
cating hand. 

'  Yes,  he  is,'  insisted  Graham ;  *  his  goodness  and  meek- 
ness are  all  on  the  surface !  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  a 
kind  of  human  mole  who  works  underground,  and  makes 
mischief  in  secret  ways.  If  you  have  a  cupboard  with  a 
skeleton,  bishop,  take  care  Mr  Cargrim  doesn't  steal  the 
key.' 

Graham  spoke  with  some  meaning,  for  since  the  illness 
of  Dr  Pendle  after  Jentham's  visit,  he  had  suspected  that 

149 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

the  bishop  was  worried  in  his  mind,  and  that  he  possessLd 
a  secret  which  was  wearing  liini  out.  Had  he  known  that 
the  strange  visitor  was  one  and  the  same  with  the  mur- 
dered man,  he  might  have  spoken  still  more  to  the  point ; 
but  the  doctor  was  ignorant  of  this  and  consequently  con- 
ceived the  bishop's  secret  to  be  much  more  harmless  than 
it  really  was.  However,  his  words  touched  his  host  nearly, 
for  Dr  Pendle  started  and  grew  nervous,  and  looked  so 
haggard  and  worried  that  Graham  continued  his  speech 
without  giving  him  time  to  make  a  remark. 

•However,  I  did  not  come  heio  to  discuss  Cargrim,' he 
said  cheerfully,  *  but  because  you  sent  for  me.  It  is  about 
time,'  said  Graham,  grimly,  surveying  the  bishop's  wasted  face 
and  embarrassed  manner.  '  You  are  looking  about  as  ill  as 
a  man  can  look.     What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?' 

'Nothing  is  the  matter  with  me.  I  am  in  my  usual 
health.' 

'  You  look  it,'  said  the  doctor,  ironically.  '  Good  Lord, 
man  ! '  with  sudden  wrath,  '  why  in  the  name  of  the  Thirty- 
Nine  Articles  can't  you  tell  me  the  truth  ?' 

'  The  truth  ? '  echoed  the  bishop,  faintly. 

*  Yes,  my  lord,  I  said  the  truth,  and  I  mean  the  truth.  If 
you  are  not  wrong  in  body  you  are  in  mind.  A  man 
doesn't  lose  fiesh,  and  colour,  and  appetite,  and  selfcontrol 
for  nothing.  You  want  me  to  cure  you.  Well,  I  can't,  un- 
less you  show  me  the  root  of  your  trouble.' 

'  I  am  worried  over  a  private  affair,'  confessed  Pendle, 
driven  into  a  corner. 

*  Something  wrong?'  asked  Graham,  raising  his  eyebrowSb 
*Yes,  something  is  very  wrong.' 

'  Can't  it  be  put  right  ?  ' 

'  I  fear  not,'  said  the  bishop,  in  hopeless  tones.  'It  is  one 
of  those  things  beyond  the  puwer  of  mortal  man  to  put  right.' 

'Your  trouble  must  be  serious,'  said  Graham,  with  a 
grave  face. 

'  It  is  very  serious.  You  can't  help  me.  I  can't  help 
myself.  I  must  endure  my  sorrow  as  best  I  may.  After 
all,  God  strengthens  the  back  for  the  burden.' 

*  Oh,  Lord  ! '  groaned  Graham  to  himself,  '  that  make  th©- 
best-of-it-view  seems  to  be  the  gist  of  Christianity.  What 
the  deuce  is  the  good  of  laying  a  too  weighty  burden  on 

150 


The  Bishop's  Request 

any  back,  when  you've  got  to  strengthen  it  to  bear  it  ?  Well, 
bishop,'  he  added  aloud,  '  I  have  no  right  to  ask  for  a 
glimpse  of  your  skeleton.     But  can  I  help  you  in  any  way?' 

*  Yes,'  cried  the  bishop,  eagerly.  '  I  sent  for  you  to  request 
your  aid.     You  can  help  me,  Graham,  and  very  materially.' 

•I'm  willing  to  do  so.     What  shall  I  do?' 

*Send  my  wife  and  daughter  over  to  Nauheim  on  the 
pretext  that  Mrs  Pendle  requires  the  baths,  and  keep  them 
there  for  two  months.' 

Dr  Graham  looked  puzzled,  for  he  could  by  no  means 
conceive  the  meaning  of  so  odd  a  request.  In  common 
with  other  people,  he  was  accustomed  to  consider  Bishop 
and  Mrs  Pendle  a  model  couple,  who  would  be  as  miser- 
able as  two  separated  love-birds  if  parted.  Yet  here  was 
the  husband  asking  his  aid  to  send  away  the  wife  on  what 
he  admitted  was  a  transparent  pretext.  For  the  moment 
he  was  nonplussed. 

*  Pardon  me,  bishop,*  he  said  delicately,  '  but  have  you 
had  words  with  your  wife?' 

'  No !  no !  God  forbid,  Graham.  She  is  as  good  and 
tender  as  she  always  is :  as  dear  to  me  as  she  ever  was. 
But  I  wish  her  to  go  away  for  a  time,  and  I  desire  Lucy 
to  accompany  her.  Yesterday  I  suggested  that  they 
should  take  a  trip  to  Nauheim,  but  both  of  them  seemed 
unwilling  to  go.  Yet  they  must  go ! '  cried  the  bishop, 
vehemently;  'and  you  must  help  me  in  my  trouble  by 
insisting  upon  their  immediate  departure.' 

Graham  was  more  perplexed  than  ever.  'Has  your 
secret  trouble  anything  to  do  with  Mrs  Pendle?'  he 
demanded,  hardly  knowing  what  to  say. 

*  It  has  everything  to  do  with  her  ! ' 
'Does  she  know  that  it  has  ?  * 

'No,  she  knows  nothing — not  even  that  I  am  keeping 
a  secret  from  her ;  doctor,'  said  Pendle,  rising,  '  if  I  could 
tell  you  my  trouble  I  would,  but  I  cannot;  I  dare  not! 
If  you  help  me,  you  must  do  so  with  implicit  confidence 
in  me,  knowing  that  I  am  acting  for  the  best,* 

'  Well,  bishop,  you  place  me  rather  in  a  cleft  stick,'  said 
the  doctor,  looking  at  the  agitated  face  of  the  man  with 
his  shrewd  little  eyes.  '  1  don't  like  acting  in  the  dark. 
One  should  always  look  before  he  leaps,  you  know.' 

i5» 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

•But,  good  heavens,  man  I  I  am  not  asking  you  to  do 
anything  wrong.  My  request  is  a  perfectly  reasonable  one. 
I  want  my  wife  and  daughter  to  leave  England  for  a  time, 
and  you  can  induce  them  to  take  the  journey.' 

•  \\  ell,'  said  Graham,  calmly,  '  I  shall  do  so.' 

'Thank  you,  Graham.  It  is  g'jod  of  you  to  accede  to 
my  request.' 

'I  wouldn't  do  it  for  everyone,'  said  Graham,  sharply. 
'And  although  I  do  not  like  being  shut  out  from  your  con- 
fidence, I  know  you  well  enough  to  trust  you  thoroughly. 
A  couple  of  months  at  Nauheim  may  do  your  wife  good, 
and — as  you  tell  me — will  relieve  your  mind.' 

'  It  will  certainly  relieve  my  mind,'  said  the  bishop,  very 
emphatically. 

'  Very  good,  my  lord.  I'll  do  my  very  best  to  persuade 
Mrs  Pendle  and  your  daughter  to  undertake  the  journey.' 

'  Of  course,'  said  Pendle,  anxiously,  '  you  won't  tell 
them  all  I  have  told  you !  I  do  not  wish  to  explain  myself 
too  minutely  to  them.' 

*I  am  not  quite  so  indiscreet  as  you  think,  my  lord,' 
replied  Graham,  with  some  dryness.  •  Your  wife  shall 
leave  Beorminster  for  Nauheim  thinking  that  your  desire 
for  her  departure  is  entirely  on  account  of  her  health.' 

'  Thank  you  again,  doctor  1 '  and  the  bishop  held  out 
his  hand. 

'Come,'  said  Graham  to  himself  as  he  took  it,  'this 
secret  can't  be  anything  very  dreadful  if  he  gives  me  his 
hand.  My  lord ! '  he  added  aloud,  '  I  shall  see  Mrs 
Pendle  at  once.  But  before  closing  this  conversation  I 
would  give  you  a  warning.' 

•  A  warning  ! '  stammered  the  bishop,  starting  back. 

•  A  very  necessary  warning,'  said  the  doctor,  solemnly. 
'  If  you  have  a  secret,  beware  of  Cargrim.' 


tj« 


CHAPTER   XX 

MOTHER   JAEL 

Doctor  Graham  was  not  the  man  to  fail  in  carrying 
through  successfully  any  scheme  he  undertook,  and  what  he 
had  promised  the  bishop  he  duly  fulfilled.  After  a  rather 
lengthy  interview  with  Mrs  Pendle  and  her  daughter,  he 
succeeded  in  arousing  their  interest  in  Nauhelm  and  its 
baths :  so  much  so,  that  before  he  left  the  palace  they  were 
as  eager  to  go  as  formerly  they  had  been  to  stay.  This 
seeming  miracle  was  accomplished  mainly  by  a  skilful 
appeal  to  Mrs  Pendle's  love  for  experimenting  with  new 
medical  discoveries  in  connection  with  her  health.  She 
had  never  tried  the  Schott  treatment  for  heort  dilation,  and 
indeed  had  heard  very  little  about  it;  but  when  fully  in- 
formed on  the  subject,  her  interest  in  it  was  soon  awakened. 
She  soon  came  to  look  on  the  carbolic  spring  of  Nauheim  as 
the  true  fountain  of  youth,  and  was  sanguine  that  by 
bathing  for  a  few  weeks  in  its  life-giving  waters  she  would 
return  to  Beorminster  hale  and  hearty,  and  full  of  vitality. 
If  ever  Hope  told  a  flattering  tale,  she  did  to  Mrs  Pendle 
through  the  lips  of  cunning  Dr  Graham. 

'I  thought  you  knew  nothing  about  new  medicines 
or  treatments,'  she  observed  graciously ;  *  or,  if  you  did, 
that  you  were  too  conservative  to  prescribe  them.  I  see 
I  was  wrong,' 

•You  were  decidedly  wrong,  Mrs  Pendle.  It  is  only  a 
fool  who  ceases  to  acquire  knowledge  and  benefit  by  it. 
I  am  not  a  cabbage  although  I  do  live  in  a  vegetable 
garden.' 

Lucy's  consent  was  gained  through  the  glowing  descrip- 
tion of  the  benefit  her  mother  would  receive  from  tiie 
Nauheim  waters,  and  the  opportune  arrival  of  Sir  Harry 
Brace  contributed  to  the  wished-for    result.     The  ardent 

11  153 


The  Bishop  s  Secret 

lover  immediately  declared  his  willingness  to  escort  Lucy 
to  the  world's  end.  Wherever  Lucy  was,  the  Garden  of 
Eden  lilossomed;  and  while  Mrs  Pendle  was  being  pickled 
and  massaged  and  put  to  bed  for  recuperative  slumbers, 
he  hoped  to  have  his  future  wife  all  to  himself.  In  her 
sweet  company  even  the  dull  little  German  watering- 
place  would  prove  a  Paradise.  Cupid  is  the  sole  niiracle- 
wui  ker  in  these  days  of  scepticism, 

'  It  is  all  right,  bishop ! '  said  the  victorious  doctor. 
'The  ladies  will  be  off,  with  Brace  in  attendance,  as  soon 
as  they  can  pack  up  a  waggon  load  of  feminine  frippery.' 

'  I  am  sincerely  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  Dr  Pendle,  and 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  which  made  Graham  wog  his  head 
and  put  in  a  word  of  advice. 

'  You  must  take  a  trip  yourself,  my  lord,'  he  said 
decisively;  'nothing  like  change  for  mental  worry.  Go  to 
B.uh,  or  Putney,  or  Jericho,  bishop  ;  travel  is  your  anodyne,' 

'I  cannot  leave  Beorminster  just  now,  Graham.  When 
I  can  I  shall  take  your  advice.' 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  towards 
the  door.  There  he  paused  and  looked  back  at  the  un- 
happy face  of  the  bishop.  A  thought  struck  him  and  he 
returned. 

•  Pendle,'  he  said  gently,  *  I  am  your  oldest  friend  and 
one  who  honours  and  respects  you  above  all  men.  ^Vhy 
not  tell  me  your  trouble  and  let  me  help  you  ?  I  shall  keep 
your  secret,  whatever  it  may  be.' 

'I  have  no  fears  on  that  score,  Graham.  If  I  could 
trust  anyone  I  should  trust  you  j  but  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  is  in  my  mind.  No  useful  result  would  come  of  such 
candour,  for  only  the  One  above  can  help  me  out  of  my 
difficulties,' 

'  Is  it  money  worries,  bishop  ?' 

*No,  my  worldly  affairs  are  most  prosperous.' 

'It  is  not  this  murder  that  is  troubling  you,  I  suppose?' 

The  bishop  became  as  pale  as  the  paper  on  the  desk 
before  him,  and  convulsively  clutched  tlie  arms  of  his 
chair.  'The— the  murder!'  he  stammered,  'the  murder, 
Graham.    Why  should  that  trouble  me  ? ' 

'  Cargrim  told  me  that  you  were  greatly  upset  that  such 
a  thing  should  have  occurred  in  your  diocese,' 

«S4 


Mother  J ael 

'  I  am  annoyed  about  it,'  replied  Pendle,  in  a  low  voice, 
'  but  it  is  not  the  untimely  death  of  that  unhappy  man  which 
worries  me.' 

'Then  I  give  it  up,'  said  the  docior,  with  another 
shrug. 

'  Graham  ! ' 

•  Yes,  what  is  it  ? ' 

'  Do  you  think  that  there  is  any  chance  of  the  murderer 
of  this  man  being  discovered  ? ' 

•  If  the  case  had  been  handled  by  a  London  detective 
while  the  clues  were  fresh  I  daresay  there  might  have  been 
a  chance,'  replied  the  doctor.  '  But  that  mutton-headed 
Tinkler  has  made  such  a  muddle  of  the  affair  that  I  am 
certain  the  murderer  will  never  be  captured.' 

•Has  anything  new  been  discovered  since  the  inquest?' 

'Nothing.  So  far  as  I  know,  Tinkler  is  satisfied  and  the 
matter  is  at  an  end.  Whosoever  killed  Jentham  has  only 
his  own  conscience  to  fear.' 

'  And  God  ! '  said  the  bishop,  softly. 

'  I  always  understood  that  what  you  Churchmen  call 
conscience  was  the  still  small  voice  of  the  Deity,'  replied 
Graham,  drily;  'there  is  no  use  in  being  tautological,  bishop. 
Well,  good-day,  my  lord.' 

'Good-day,  doctor,  and  many,  many  thanks  for  your 
kindly  help.' 

'  Not  at  all.  I  only  wish  that  you  would  let  me  help  you 
to  some  purpose  by  treating  me  as  your  friend  and 
unburdening  your  mind.  There  is  one  great  truth  that 
you  should  become  a  convert  to,  bishop.' 

•  Ay,  ay,  what  is  that  ? '  said  Pendle,  listlessly. 

'  That  medical  men  are  the  father-confessors  of  Protestant- 
ism.    Good-day ! ' 

Outside  the  library  Cargrim  was  idling  about,  in  the  hope 
of  picking  up  some  crumbs  of  information,  when  Graham 
took  his  departure.  But  the  little  doctor,  who  was  not  in 
the  best  of  tempers  for  another  conversation,  shot  past 
the  chaplain  like  a  bolt  from  the  bow ;  and  by  the  time 
Cargrim  recovered  from  such  brusque  treatment  was  half- 
way down  the  avenue,  fuming  and  fretting  at  his  inability 
to  understand  the  attitude  of  Bishop  Pendle.  Dr  Graham 
loved  a  secret  as  a  magpie  does  a  piece  of  stolen  money, 

11  155 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

and  he  was  simply  frantic  to  find  out  what  vexed  his 
friend  ;  the  more  so  as  he  believed  that  he  could  help  him 
to  bear  his  trouble  by  sympathy,  and  perhai>s  by  advice 
do  away  with  it  altogether.  He  could  not  even  make  a 
guess  at  the  bishop's  hidden  trouble,  and  ran  over  all 
known  crimes  in  his  mind,  from  murder  to  arson,  without 
coming  to  any  conclusion.  Yet  something  extraordinary 
must  be  the  matter  to  move  so  easy-going,  healthy  a  man 
as  Dr  Pendle. 

'I  know  more  of  his  life  than  most  people,'  thought 
Graham,  as  he  trotted  briskly  along,  *and  there  is  nothing 
in  it  that  I  cr.n  see  to  upset  him  so.  He  hasn't  forged,  or 
coined,  or  murdered,  or  sold  himself  to  Pluto-Pan  Satan 
so  far  as  I  know ;  and  he  is  too  clear-headed  and  sane  to 
have  a  monomania  about  a  non-existent  trouble.  Dear, 
dear,'  the  doctor  shook  his  head  sadly,  'I  shall  never 
understand  human  nature;  there  is  always  an  abyss  below 
an  abyss,  and  the  firmest  seeming  ground  is  usually  quag- 
mire when  you  come  to  step  on  it.  George  Pendle  is  a 
riddle  which  would  puzzle  the  Sphinx.  Hum !  hum !  another 
fabulous  beast.  Well,  well,  I  can  only  wait  and  watch 
until  I  discover  the  truth,  and  then — well,  what  then  ? — why, 
nothing  ! '  And  Graliam,  having  talked  himself  into  a  cul- 
de-sac  of  thought,  shook  his  head  furiously  and  strove  to 
dismiss  the  matter  from  his  too  inquisitive  mind.  But  not 
all  his  philosophy  and  will  could  accomjilish  the  im- 
possible. 'We  are  a  finite  lot  of  fools,'  said  he,  'and  when 
we  think  we  know  most  we  know  least.  How  that  name- 
less Unseen  Power  must  smile  at  our  attempts  to  scale 
the  stars,'  by  which  remark  it  will  be  seen  that  Dr  Graham 
was  not  the  atheist  Beorminster  believed  him  to  be. 
And  here  may  end  his  speculations  for  the  present. 

Shortly,  Mrs  Pendle  and  Lucy  began  to  pack  a  vast 
number  of  boxes  with  garments  needful  and  oriumental, 
and  sufficient  in  quantity  to  last  them  for  at  least  twelve 
months.  It  is  true  that  they  intended  to  remain  away  only 
ei'^ht  weeks,  but  the  preparations  for  departure  were  worthy 
of  the  starting  out  of  a  crusade.  They  must  take  this; 
they  couid  certainly  not  leave  that;  warm  dre^jses  were 
needed  for  possible  cold  weather;  cool  frocks  were  requi- 
site for  probable  hot  days ;  they  must  have  smart  dresses 

IS6 


Mother  J ael 

as  they  would  no  doubt  go  out  a  great  deal ;  and  three  or 
four  tea-gowns  each,  as  they  might  stay  indoors  altogether. 
In  short,  their  stock  of  miUinery  would  have  clothed  at 
least  half-a-dozen  women,  although  both  ladies  protested 
plaintively  that  they  had  absolutely  nothing  to  wear,  and 
that  it  would  be  necessary  to  go  shopping  in  London  for 
a  few  days,  if  only  to  make  themselves  look  presentable. 
Harry  Brace,  the  thoughtless  bachelor,  was  struck  dumb 
when  he  saw  the  immense  quantity  of  luggage  which  went 
off  in  and  on  a  bus  to  the  railway  station  in  the  charge  of 
a  nurse  and  a  lady's-maid. 

*  Oh,  Lord  ! '  said  he,  aghast,  'are  we  starting  out  on  an 
African  expedition,  Lucy?' 

'Well,  I'm  sure,  Harry,  mamma  and  I  are  only  taking 
what  is  absolutely  necessary.  Other  women  would  take 
twice  as  much.' 

'Wait  until  you  and  Lucy  leave  for  your  honeymoon. 
Brace,'  said  the  bishop,  with  a  smile  at  his  prospective  son-in- 
law's  long  face.     '  She  will  be  one  of  the  other  women  then.' 

*  In  that  case,'  said  Harry,  a  trifle  grimly,  *  Lucy  will  have 
to  decide  if  I  am  to  go  as  a  bridegroom  or  a  luggage  agent.' 

Of  course  all  Beorminster  knew  that  Mrs  Pendle  was 
going  to  Nauheim  for  the  treatment;  and  of  course  all 
Beorminster — that  is,  the  feminine  portion  of  it — came 
to  take  tender  farewells  of  the  travellers.  Every  day  up  to 
the  moment  of  departure  Mrs  Pendle's  drawing-room  was 
crowded  with  ladies  all  relating  their  experiences  of  English 
and  Continental  travelling.  Lucy  took  leave  of  at  least  a 
dozen  dear  friends ;  and  from  the  way  in  which  Mrs  Pendl'^ 
was  lamented  over,  and  blessed,  and  warned,  and  advised 
by  the  wives  of  the  inferior  clergy,  one  would  have  thought 
that  her  destination  was  the  moon,  and  that  she  would 
never  get  back  again.  Altogether  the  palace  was  no  home 
for  a  quiet  prelate  in  those  days. 

At  the  last  moment  Mrs  Pendle  found  that  she  would  be 
wretched  if  her  bishop  did  not  accompany  her  some  way 
on  the  journey ;  so  Dr  Pendle  went  with  the  travellers  to 
London,  and  spent  a  pleasant  day  or  so,  being  hurried  about 
from  shop  to  shop.  If  he  had  not  been  the  most  angelic 
bishop  in  England  he  would  have  revolted ;  but  as  he  was 
anxious  that  his  wife  should  have  no  cause  of  complaint,  he 

157 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

exhausted  himself  with  the  utmost  amiability.  But  the 
longest  lane  has  a  turning,  and  the  day  came  when  Mrs 
Pendle  and  Lucy,  attended  by  the  dazed  Harry,  left  for 
Nauheim  via  Queenborough,  Flushing  and  Cologne.  Mrs 
Pendle  declared,  as  the  traiq  moved  away,  that  she  was 
thoroughly  exhausted,  which  statement  the  bishop  quite 
believed.  His  wonder  was  that  she  and  Lucy  were  not 
dead  and  buried. 

On  returning  to  the  empty  palace,  Bishop  Pendle  settled 
himself  down  for  a  long  rest.  Remembering  Graham's  hint, 
he  saw  as  little  of  Cargrim  as  was  compatible  with  the  re- 
lationship of  business.  The  chaplain  noted  that  he  was  being 
avoided,  and  guessing  that  someone  had  placed  Dr  Pendle  on 
his  guard  against  him,  became  more  secretive  and  watchful 
than  ever.  But  in  spite  of  all  his  spying  he  met  with  little 
success,  for  althougli  the  bishop  still  continued  weary-eyed 
and  worried-looking,  he  went  about  his  work  with  more 
zest  than  usual.  Indeed,  he  attended  so  closely  to  the 
duties  of  his  position  that  Cargrim  fancied  he  was  trying 
to  forget  his  wickedness  by  distracting  his  mind.  But,  as 
usual,  the  chaplain  had  no  tangible  reason  for  this  belief. 

And  about  this  time,  when  most  industrious,  the  bishop 
began  to  be  haunted,  not  by  a  ghost,  which  would  have 
been  bearable  as  ghosts  appear  usually  only  in  the  night- 
time, but  by  a  queer  little  old  woman  in  a  red  cloak,  who 
supported  herself  with  a  crutch  and  looked  like  a  wicked 
fairy.  This,  as  the  bishop  ascertained  by  a  casual  question, 
was  Mother  Jael,  the  gipsy  friend  of  Jentham,  and  the 
knowledge  of  her  identity  did  not  make  him  the  easier  in 
his  mind.  He  could  not  conceive  what  she  meant  by  her 
constant  attendance  on  him  ;  and  but  that  he  believed  in 
the  wisdom  of  letting  sleeping  dogs  lie,  he  would  have 
resented  her  pertinacity.  The  sight  of  her  became  almost 
insupportable. 

Whether  Mother  Jael  intended  to  terrify  the  bishop  cr 
not  it  is  hard  to  say,  but  the  way  in  which  she  followed 
him  tormented  him  beyond  measure.  When  he  left  the 
palace  she  was  there  on  the  road ;  when  he  preached  in 
the  cathedral  she  lurked  among  the  congregation  ;  when  he 
strolled  about  Beorminster  she  watched  him  round  corners, 
but  she  never  approached  him,  she  never  spoke  to  him,  ar:<i 

158 


Mother  J ae  I 

fre(4uently  vanished  as  mysteriously  and  unexpectedly  as  she 
appeared.  Wherever  he  went,  wherever  he  looked,  that 
crimson  cloak  was  sure  to  meet  his  eye.  Mother  Jael  was 
old  and  bent  and  witch-like,  with  elf  locks  of  white  hair 
and  a  yellow,  wrinkled  face ;  but  her  eyes  burned  like  two 
fiery  stars  under  her  frosted  brows,  and  with  these  she  stared 
hard  at  Bishop  Pendle,  until  he  felt  almost  mesmerised  by 
the  intensity  of  her  gaze.  She  became  a  perfect  nightmare 
to  the  man,  much  the  same  as  the  little  old  woman  of  the 
coffer  was  to  Abudah,  the  merchant  in  the  fantastic  eastern 
tale;  but,  unlike  that  pertinacious  beldam,  she  apparently 
had  no  message  to  deliver.  She  only  stared  and  stared 
with  her  glittering,  evil  eyes,  until  the  bishop — his  nerves 
not  being  under  control  with  this  constant  persecution — 
almost  fancied  that  the  powers  of  darkness  had  leagued 
themselves  against  him,  and  had  sent  this  hell-hag  to  haunt 
and  torment  him. 

Several  times  he  strove  to  speak  to  her,  for  he  thought 
that  even  the  proverb  of  sleeping  dogs  might  be  acted 
upon  too  literally;  but  Mother  Jael  always  managed  to 
shuffle  out  of  the  way.  She  appeared  to  have  the  power 
of  disintegrating  her  body,  for  where  she  disappeared  to 
on  these  occasions  the  bishop  never  could  find  out.  One 
minute  he  would  see  her  in  her  red  cloak,  leaning  on  her 
crutch  and  staring  at  him  steadily,  but"  let  him  take  one 
step  in  her  direction  and  she  would  vanish  like  a  ghost. 
No  wonder  the  bishop's  nerves  began  to  give  way;  the 
constant  sight  of  that  silent  figure  with  its  menacing  gaze 
would  have  driven  many  a  man  out  of  his  mind,  but  Dr 
Pendle  resisted  the  panic  which  seized  him  at  times,  and 
strove  to  face  the  apparition — for  Mother  Jael's  flittings  de- 
served such  a  name — with  control  and  calmness.  But  the 
effort  was  beyond  his  strength  at  times. 

As  the  weeks  went  by,  Cargrim  also  began  to  notice  the 
persecution  of  Mother  Jael,  and  conneciing  her  with  Jentham 
and  Jentham  with  the  bishop,  he  began  to  wonder  if  she 
knew  the  truth  about  the  murder.  It  was  not  improbable, 
he  thought,  that  she  might  be  possessed  of  more  important 
knowledge  than  she  had  imparted  to  the  police,  and  a 
single  word  from  her  might  bring  home  the  crime  to  the 
bishop.     If  he  was  innocent,  why  did  she  haunt  him  ?     But 

i59 


The  Bishops  Secret 

again,  if  he  was  guilty,  why  did  she  avoid  him?  To  gain 
an  answer  to  this  riddle,  Cargrim  attempted  wlien  possible 
to  Seize  the  elusive  phantom  of  Mother  Jael,  but  three  or 
four  times  she  managed  to  vanish  in  her  witch-like  way. 
At  length  one  day  when  she  was  watching  the  bishop 
talking  to  the  dean  at  the  northern  door  of  the  cathedral, 
Cargrim  came  softly  behind  her  and  seized  her  arm. 
Mother  Jael  turned  with  a  scjueak  like  a  trapped  rabbit. 

'  Why  do  you  watch  the  bishop  ? '  asked  Cargrim,  sharply. 

'  Bless  ye,  lovey,  I  don't  watch  'im,'  whined  Mother  Jael, 
cringing. 

'  Nonsense,  I've  seen  you  look  at  him  several  times.' 

'There  ain't  no  harm  in  that,  my  lamb.  They  do  say  as  a 
cat  kin  look  at  a  queen ;  and  why  not  a  pore  gipsy  at  a 
noble  bishop  ?  I  say,  dearie,'  she  added,  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
'what's  his  first  name?' 

'  The  bishop's  first  name  ?  George.  Why  do  you  want 
to  know  ? ' 

'  George !  *  pondered  Mother  Jael,  taking  no  notice  of 
the  question,  '  I  allays  though'  the  sojir  was  George !' 

'  He  is  George  too,  called  after  his  father.  Answer  me ! 
Wliy  do  you  want  to  know  the  bishop's  name  ?  and  why  do 
you  watch  him?' 

'  Ah,  my  noble  Gorgio,  that's  tellings !  * 

*  No  doubt,  so  just  tell  it  to  me.' 

'  Lord,  lovey  1  the  likes  of  you  don't  want  to  know  what 
the  likes  of  me  thinks.' 

Cargrim  lost  his  temper  at  these  evasions.  '  You  are  a 
bad  character,  Mother  Jael.  I  shall  warn  the  police  about 
you.' 

'Oh,  tiny  Jesius,  hear  him  !  I  ain't  done  nothing  wrong. 
I'm  a  pore  old  gipsy ;  strike  me  dead  if  I  ain't.' 

'If  you  tell  me  something,'  said  Cargrim,  changing  his 
tactics,  'you  shall  have  this,'  and  he  produced  a  coin. 

Mother  Jael  eyed  the  bright  half-sovereign  he  held  be- 
tween finger  and  thumb,  and  her  old  eyes  glistened.  'Yes, 
dearie,  yes  1     What  is  it  ? ' 

•Tell  me  the  truth  about  the  murder,'  whispered  Cargrim, 
with  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  bishop. 

Mother  Jael  gave  a  shrill  screech,  grabbed  the  half- 
sovereign,  and  shuffled  away  so  rapidly  that  she  was  round 

i6o 


Mother  J ael 

the  corner  before  Cargrim  could  recover  from  his  surprise. 
At  once  he  followed,  but  in  spite  of  all  his  search  he  could 
not  find  the  old  hag.     Yet  she  had  her  eye  on  him. 

*  George  !  and  George  ! '  said  Mother  Jael,  who  was  watch- 
ing him  from  an  odd  angle  of  the  wall  into  which  she  had 
squeezed  herself,  '  I  wonder  which  of  'em  did  it  ?  * 


CHAPTER    XXI 

MRS     PANSEY's     festival 

Once  a  yeir  the  archdeacon's  widow  discharpr d  her  social 
obligations  f)y  throwing  open  tlie  gaol  in  whicli  siie  dwelt. 
Her  festival,  to  which  all  that  Beorniinster  could  boast  of 
in  the  way  of  society  was  invited,  usually  took  the  form  of 
an  out-of-door  party,  as  Mrs  Pansey  found  that  she  could 
receive  more  people,  and  trouble  herself  less  about  their 
entertainment,  by  filling  her  grounds  than  by  crushing 
them  into  the  rather  small  reception-rooms  of  her  house. 
Besides,  the  gardens  were  really  charming,  and  the  wide- 
spreading  green  of  the  lawns,  surrounded  by  ample  flower- 
beds, now  brilliant  with  rainbow  blo?soms,  looked  most 
picturesque  when  thronged  with  well-dressed,  well-bred, 
well-pleased  guests.  Nearly  all  the  invitations  had  been 
accepted ;  firstly,  because  Mrs  Pansey  made  things  un- 
pleasant afterwards  for  such  defiant  spirits  as  stayed  away  ; 
secondly,  for  the  very  attractive  reason  that  the  meat  and 
drink  provided  by  the  hostess  were  of  the  best.  Thus 
Mrs  Pansey's  entertainments  were  usually  the  most  success- 
ful of  the  Beorminster  season. 

On  this  auspicious  occasion  the  clerk  of  the  weather  had 
granted  the  hostess  an  especially  fine  day.  Sunshine  filled 
the  cloudless  arch  of  the  blue  sky ;  the  air  was  warm,  but 
tempered  by  a  softly-blowing  breeze ;  and  the  guests, 
to  do  honour  at  once  to  Mrs  Pansey  and  the  delightful 
weather,  wore  their  most  becoming  and  coolest  costumes. 
Pretty  girls  laughed  in  the  sunshine;  matrons  gossiped 
beneath  the  rustling  trees  ;  and  the  sober  black  coats  of 
the  clerical  element  subdued  the  too  vivid  tints  of  the 
feminine  frippery.  The  scene  was  animated  and  full  of 
colour  and  movement,  so  that  even  Mrs  Pansey's  grim 
counterunce    expanded     into     an     unusual     smile     when 

163 


Mrs  Pdiiseys  Festival 

greeting  fresh  arrivals.  At  intervals  a  band  played  lively 
dance  music ;  there  was  croquet  and  lawn-tennis  for  the 
young;  iced  coffee  and  scandal  for  the  old.  Altogether, 
the  company,  being  mostly  youthful  and  unthinking,  was 
enjoying  itself  immensely,  as  the  chatter  and  laughter,  and 
smiling  and  bowing  amply  testified. 

'Altogether,  I  may  regard  it  as  a  distinct  success,* 
said  Mrs  Pansey,  as,  attired  in  her  most  Hamlet-like 
weeds,  she  received  her  guests  under  the  shade  of  a 
many-coloured  Japanese  umbrella.  'And  the  gardens 
really  look  nice.' 

'The  gardens  of  Paradise!*  observed  the  compliment- 
ary Cargrim,  who  was  smirking  at  the  elbow  of  his 
hostess. 

'Don't  distort  Holy  Writ,  if — you  —  please!'  snapped 
Mrs  Pansey,  who  still  reserved  the  right  of  being  dis- 
agreeable even  at  her  own  entertainment ;  '  but  if  you  do 
call  this  the  Garden  of  Eden,  I  daresay  there  are  plenty 
of  serpents  about.' 

'  And  many  Adams  and  Eves ! '  said  Dr  Graham,  sur- 
veying the  company  with  his  usual  cynicism ;  '  but  I  don't 
see  Liiith,  Mrs  Pansey.' 

*  Liiith,  doctor  !  what  an  improper  name  ! ' 

•  And  what  an  improper  person,  my  dear  lady.  Liiith 
was  the  other  wife  of  Father  Adam,' 

'  How  dare  you,  Dr  Graham  !  the  first  man  a  bigamist ! 
Ridiculous !  Profane !  Only  one  rib  was  taken  out  of 
Adam ! ' 

'  Liiith  wasn't  manufactured  out  of  a  rib,  Mrs  Pansey. 
The  devil  created  her  to  deceive  Adam.  At  least,  so  the 
Rabbinists  tell  us  ! ' 

'  Oh,  those  Jewish  creatures  ! '  said  the  lady,  with  a  sniff. 
'  I  don't  think  much  of  their  opinion.  What  do  Jews 
know  about  the  Bible  ?  ' 

'  As  much  as  authors  generally  know  about  their  own 
books,  I  suppose,'  said  Graham,  drily. 

'We  are  becoming  theological,'  observed  Cargrim, 
smoothly. 

'  Not  to  say  blasphemous,'  growled  Mrs  Pansey ;  '  at  least, 
the  doctor  is,  like  ail  sceptics  of  his  infidel  profession. 
Remember  Ananias  and  his  lies,  sir.* 

163 


Tlu  Bishofs  Secret 

•I  shall  rather  remember  Eve  and  her  curiosity,'  laughed 
Graham,  'and  to  follow  so  good  an  example  let  me  inquire 
what  yonder  very  pretty  tent  contains,  Mrs  Pansey?' 

•That  is  a  pitce  of  Daisy's  foolishness,  doctor.  It  con- 
tains a  gipsy,  whom  she  induced  me  to  hire  for  some 
fortune-telling  rubbish.' 

•  Oh,  how  sweet !  how  jolly !  *  cried  a  mixed  chorus  of 
young  voices.  'A  real  gipsy,  Mrs  Pansey?'  and  the  good 
lady  was  besieged  with  questions. 

•  She  is  cunning  and  dirty  enough  to  be  genuine,  my 
dears.     Some  of  you  may  know  her.     Mother  Jael !  * 

'  Aroint  thee,  witch ! '  cried  Dr  Graham,  '  that  old 
beldam  ;  oh,  she  can  "pen  dukherin  "  to  some  purpose.  I 
have  heard  of  her ;  so  have  the  police.' 

*What  language  is  that?'  asked  Miss  ^Vhichello,  who 
came  up  at  this  moment  with  a  smile  and  a  word  for  all ; 
'  it  sounds  like  swearing.' 

'I'd  like  to  see  anyone  swear  here,'  said  Mrs  Pansey, 
gr'mly. 

•  Set  your  mind  at  rest,  dear  lady,  I  was  speaking  Rom- 
any— the  black  language — the  calo  jib  which  the  gipsies 
brought  from  the  East  when  they  came  to  plunder  the  hen- 
coo])S  of  Europe.* 

'  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  those  creatures  have  a 
language  of  their  own?'  asked  Miss  Whichello,  dis- 
believingly. 

•  Why  not  ?  I  daresay  their  ancestors  made  bricks  on  the 
plain  of  Shinar,  and  were  lucky  enough  to  gain  a  language 
without  the  trouble  of  learning  it.' 

'  You  allude  to  the  Tower  of  Babel,  sir ! '  said  Mrs 
Pansey,  with  a  scowl. 

•  Rather  to  the  Tower  of  Fable,  dear  lady,  since  the 
whole  story  is  a  myth.' 

Not  caring  to  hear  this  duel  of  words,  and  rather  surprised 
to  learn  that  Mother  Jael  was  present,  Cargrim  slipped  away 
at  the  first  opportunity  to  ponder  over  the  information 
and  consider  what  use  he  could  make  of  it.  So  the  old 
woman  still  followed  the  bishop  ? — had  followed  him  even 
into  society,  and  had  made  herself  Mrs  Pansey's  profes- 
sional fortune-teller  so  that  she  might  still  continue  to 
vex  the  eyes  of  her  victim  with  the  sight  of  her  eternal 

164 


Mrs  Panseys  Festival 

red  cloak.  Dr  Pendle  was  at  that  very  moment  walking 
amongst  the  guests,  with  his  youngest  son  by  his  side,  and 
appeared  to  be  more  cheerful  and  more  like  his  former  self 
than  he  had  been  for  some  time.  Apparently  he  was  as  yet 
ignorant  that  Mother  Jael  was  in  his  immediate  vicinity;  but 
Cargrim  determined  that  he  should  be  warned  of  her  pres- 
ence as  speedily  as  possible,  and  be  lured  into  having  an 
interview  with  her  so  that  his  scheming  chaplain  might  see 
what  would  come  of  the  meeting.  Also  Cargrim  resolved 
to  see  the  old  gipsy  himself  and  renew  the  conversation 
which  she  had  broken  off  when  she  had  thieved  his  gold. 
In  one  way  or  another  he  foresaw  that  it  would  be 
absolutely  necessary  to  force  the  woman  into  making  some 
definite  statement  either  inculpating  or  exonerating  the 
bishop  in  respect  of  Jentham's  death.  Therefore,  having 
come  to  this  conclusion,  Cargrim  strolled  watchfully  through 
the  merry  crowd.  It  was  his  purpose  to  inform  Dr  Pendle 
that  Mother  Jael  was  telling  fortunes  in  the  gaily-striped 
tent,  and  his  determination  to  bring — if  possible — the 
prelate  into  contact  with  the  old  hag.  From  such  a  meeting 
artful  Mr  Cargrim  hoped  to  gather  some  useful  information 
from  the  conversation  and  behaviour  of  the  pair. 

Unfortunately  Cargrim  was  impeded  in  the  execution  of 
this  scheme  from  the  fact  of  his  remarkable  popularity.  He 
could  not  take  two  steps  without  being  addressed  by  one 
or  more  of  his  lady  admirers;  and  although  he  saw  the 
bishop  no  great  distance  away,  he  could  not  reach  him  by 
reason  of  the  detaining  sirens.  As  gracefully  as  possible 
he  eluded  their  snares,  but  when  confronted  by  Daisy 
Norsham  hanging  on  the  arm  of  Dean  Alder,  he  almost 
gave  up  hope  of  reaching  his  goal.  There  was  but  little 
chance  of  escape  from  Daisy  and  her  small  talk.  Moreover, 
she  was  rather  bored  by  the  instructive  conversation  of  the 
ancient  parson,  and  wanted  to  attach  herself  to  some 
younger  and  more  frivolous  man.  Cupid  in  cap  and  gown 
and  spectacles  is  a  decidedly  prosy  divinity. 

*0h,  dear  Mr  Cargrim  !'  cried  the  gushing  Daisy,  'is  it 
really  you  ?  Oh,  how  very  sweet  of  you  to  come  to-day ! 
And  what  is  the  very  latest  news  of  poor,  dear  Mrs  Pendle  ?  * 

•  I  believe  the  Nauheim  baths  are  doing  her  a  great  deal 
d  good,  Miss  Norsham.     If  you  will  excuse — ' 

165 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  Nauheim  ! '  croaked  the  dean,  with  a  dry  cougli,  '  is 
unknown  to  mc  save  as  a  geographical  expression,  but  the 
town  of  Baden-Baden,  formally  called  Aurelia  Aquensis, 
was  much  frequented  by  the  Romans  on  account  of  its 
salubrious  and  health-giving  springs.  I  may  also  instance 
Aachen,  vulgarly  termed  Aix-la-Chapelle,  but  known  to  the 
Latins  as  Aquisgranutn  or — ' 

•How  interesting!'  interrupted  Daisy,  cutting  short  this 
stream  of  information.  'You  do  seem  to  know  everything, 
Mr  Dean.  The  only  German  wateringinace  I  have  been 
to  is  Wiesbaden,  where  the  doctors  made  me  get  up  at 
five  o'clock  to  drink  the  waters.  And  fancy,  Mr  Cargrim, 
a  band  played  at  the  Kochbrunnen  at  seven  in  the  morn- 
ing.    Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  horrid?' 

*  Music  at  so  early  an  hour  would  be  trying,  Miss 
Norsham ! ' 

'  Aqua  Mattiacse  was  the  Roman  appellation  of  Wies- 
baden,' murmured  Dr  Alder,  twiddling  his  eye-glass.  'I 
hear  on  good  medical  authority  that  the  waters  are  most 
beneficial  to  renovate  health  and  arrest  decay.  I  should 
advise  his  lordship,  the  bishop,  to  visit  the  springs,  for  of 
late  I  have  noticed  that  he  appears  to  be  sadly  out  of  sorts.' 

'  He  is  looking  much  better  to-day,'  observed  the 
chaplain,  with  a  glance  at  the  bishop,  who  was  now  con- 
versing with  Miss  Whichello. 

'  Oh,  the  poor,  dear  bishop  should  have  his  fortune  told 
by  Mother  Jael.' 

'That  would  hardly  be  in  keeping  with  his  exalted 
position.  Miss  Norsham.' 

'  Oh,  really,  I  don't  see  that  it  is  so  very  dreadful,'  cried 
Daisy,  with  one  of  her  silvery  peals  of  artificial  laughter, 
•and  it's  only  fun.  Mother  Jael  might  tell  him  if  he  was 
going  to  be  ill  or  not,  you  know,  and  he  could  take 
medicine  if  he  was.  Besides,  she  does  tell  the  truth  ;  oh, 
really,  it's  too  awful  what  she  knew  about  me.  But  I'm 
glad  to  say  she  prophesied  a  lovely  future.* 

•  Marriage  and  money,  I  presume.' 

'  Well,  you  are  clever,  Mr  Cargrim ;  that  is  just  the 
fortune  she  told  me.  How  did  you  guess  ?  I'm  to  meet 
my  future  husband  here  ;  he  is  to  be  rich  and  adore  me, 
and  I'm  to  be  very,  very  happy.' 

i66 


1 


Mrs  Pansey  s  Festival 

•I  am  sure  so  charming  a  young  lady  deserves  to  be,' 
said  Cargrim,  bowing. 

'Siderum  regina  bicornis  audi,  Luna  puellas,'  quoted  Mr 
Dean,  with  a  side  glance  at  the  radiant  Daisy;  and  if  that 
confident  lady  had  understood  Latin,  she  would  have  judged 
from  this  satirical  quotation  that  Dr  Alder  was  not  so  sub- 
jugated by  her  charms  as  to  contemplate  matrimony.  But 
being  ignorant,  she  was — in  accordance  with  the  proverb 
— blissful,  and  babbled  on  with  a  never-failing  stream  of 
small  talk,  which  was  at  times  momentarily  obstructed  by 
the  heavy  masses  of  information  cast  into  it  by  the  dean. 

Leaving  this  would-be  May  and  wary  old  December  to 
their  unequal  flirtation,  Cargrim  again  attempted  to  reach 
the  bishop,  but  was  captured  by  Miss  Tancred,  inuch 
to  his  disgust.  She  entertained  him  with  a  long  and 
minute  account  of  her  rheumatic  pains  and  the  means  by 
which  she  hoped  to  cure  them.  Held  thus  as  firmly  as 
the  wedding  guest  was  by  the  Ancient  Mariner,  Cargrim 
lost  the  chance  of  hearing  a  very  interesting  conversation 
between  Miss  VVhichello  and  the  bishop;  but,  from  the 
clouded  brow  of  Dr  Pendle,  he  saw  that  something  was 
wrong,  and  chafed  at  his  enforced  detention.  Neverthe- 
less, Miss  Tancred  kept  him  beside  her  until  she  ex- 
hausted her  trickle  of  small  talk.  It  took  all  Cargrim's 
tact  and  politeness  and  Christianity  to  endure  patiently  her 
gabble. 

'Yes,  bishop,'  Miss  Whichello  was  saying,  with  some 
annoyance,  'your  son  has  admired  my  niece  for  some 
considerable  time.  Lately  they  became  engaged,  but 
I  refused  to  give  my  consent  until  your  sanction  and 
approval  had  been  obtained.' 

'  George  has  said  nothing  to  me  on  the  subject,'  replied 
Dr  Pendle,  in  a  vexed  tone.  '  Yet  he  should  certainly  have 
done  so  before  speaking  to  your  niece.' 

*  No  doubt !  but  unfortunately  young  men's  heads  do  not 
always  guide  their  hearts.  Still,  Captain  Pendle  promised 
me  to  tell  you  all  during  his  present  visit  to  Beorminster. 
And,  of  course,  both  Mrs  Pendle  and  your  daughter  Lucy 
know  of  his  love  for  Mab.' 

'  It  would  appear  that  I  am  the  sole  person  ignorant  of 
the  engagement.  Miss  Whichello.' 

^6/ 


The  Bishops  Secret 

'  It  was  not  with  my  consent  that  you  were  kept  in 
ignorance,  bishop.  But  I  really  do  not  see  why  you  should 
discourage  the  match.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that  they 
make  a  handsome  pair.' 

Dr  Pendle  cast  an  angry  look  towards  the  end  of  the 
lawn,  where  George  and  Mab  were  talking  earnestly 
together. 

'  I  don't  deny  their  physical  suitability,'  he  said  severely, 
'  but  more  than  good  looks  are  needed  to  make  a  happy 
marriage.' 

'  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  disapprove  of  my  niece  ?  * 
cried  the  little  old  lady,  drawing  herself  up. 

'  By  no  means ;  by  no  means ;  how  can  you  think  me  so 
wanting  in  courtesy  ?  But  I  must  confess  that  I  desire  my 
son  to  make  a  good  match.' 

'You  should  rather  wish  him  to  get  a  good  wife,'  retorted 
Miss  Whichello,  who  was  becoming  annoyed.  '  But  if  it  is 
fortune  you  desire,  I  can  set  your  mind  at  rest  on  that 
point.  Mab  will  inherit  my  money  when  I  die  ;  and  should 
she  marry  Captain  Pendle  during  my  lifetime,  I  shall  allow 
the  young  couple  a  thousand  a  year.' 

'  A  thousand  a  year,  Miss  Whichello  ! ' 

'Yes!  and  more  if  necessary.  Let  me  tell  you,  bishop, 
I  am  much  better  off  than  people  think.' 

The  bishop,  rather  nonplussed,  looked  down  at  his  neat 
boots  and  very  becoming  gaiters.  '  T  am  not  so  worldly- 
minded  as  you  infer,  Miss  Whichello,'  said  he,  mildly  : 
'  and  did  George  desire  to  marry  a  poor  girl,  I  have  enough 
money  of  my  own  to  humour  his  whim.  But  if  his  heart 
is  set  on  making  Miss  Arden  his  wife,  I  should  like — if  you 
will  pardon  my  candour — to  know  more  about  the  young 
lady.' 

'  Mab  is  the  best  and  most  charming  girl  in  the  world,' 
said  the  little  Jennie  Wren,  pale,  and  a  trifle  nervous. 

'  I  can  see  that  for  myself.  You  misunderstand  me. 
Miss  Whichello,  so  I  must  speak  more  explicitly.  Who 
is  Miss  Arden  ? ' 

'She  is  my  niece,'  replied  Miss  Whichello,  with  trem- 
bling dignity.  '  The  only  child  of  my  poor  sister,  who  died 
when  Mab  was  an  infant  in  arms.' 

'  Quite  so ! '  assented  the  bishop,  with  a  nod.  *  I 
%68 


Mrs  Panseys  Festival 

have  always  understood  such  to  be  the  case.  But — er — 
Mr  Arden?' 

'  Mr  Arden  ! '  faltered  the  old  lady,  turning  her  face  from 
the  company,  that  its  pallor  and  anxiety  might  not  be  seen. 

'  Her  father  !  is  he  alive  ? ' 

'  No  ! '  cried  Miss  Whichello,  shaking  her  head.  *  He 
died  long,  long  ago.' 

'  Who  was  he  ? ' 

'  A — a — a  gentleman  ! — a  gentleman  of  independent 
fortune.' 

Dr  Pendle  bit  his  nether  lip  and  looked  embarrassed. 
'  Miss  Whichello,'  he  said  at  length,  in  a  hesitating  tone, 
•  your  niece  is  a  charming  young  lady,  and,  so  far  as  she 
herself  is  concerned,  is  quite  fit  to  become  the  wife  of  my 
son  George.' 

*  I  should  think  so  indeed ! '  cried  the  little  lady,  with 
buckram  civility. 

*But,'  continued  the  bishop,  with  emphasis,  *  I  have  heard 
rumours  about  her  parentage  which  do  not  satisfy  me. 
Whether  these  are  true  or  not  is  best  known  to  yourself, 
Miss  Whichello  ;  but  before  consenting  to  the  engagement 
you  speak  of,  I  should  like  to  be  fully  informed  on  the  point' 

'To  what  rumours  does  your  lordship  refer?'  asked 
Miss  Whichello,  very  pale-faced,  but  very  quiet. 

*  This  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  to  inform  you,'  said 
the  bishop,  hastily;  'I  see  Mr  Cargrim  advancing.  On 
another  occasion.  Miss  Whichello,  we  shall  talk  about  the 
matter.' 

As  the  chaplain,  with  three  of  four  young  ladies,  including 
Miss  Norsham,  was  bearing  down  on  the  bishop.  Miss 
Whichello  recognised  the  justice  of  his  speech,  and  not 
feeling  equal  to  talk  frivolity,  she  hastily  retreated  and  ran 
into  the  house  to  fight  down  her  emotion.  What  the  poor 
little  woman  felt  was  known  only  to  herself;  but  she  fore- 
saw that  the  course  of  true  love,  so  far  as  it  concerned 
George  and  Mab,  was  not  likely  to  run  smooth.  Still,  she 
put  a  brave  face  on  it  and  hoped  for  the  best. 

In  the  meantime.    Bishop   Pendle  was   enveloped  in  a 

whirl  of  petticoats,  as  Cargrim's  Amazonian  escort,  prompted 

by  the  chaplain,  was  insisting   that   he   should   have   his 

fortune  told  by  Mother  Jael.    The  bishop  looked  perturbed 

12  169 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

on  hearing  tli.u  his  red-cloaked  pl.antom  was  so  close  at 
hand,  but  he  managed  to  keep  his  countenance,  and  laugh- 
ingly refused  to  comply  with  the  lieniand  of  the  ladies. 

'Think  of  what  the  news[)apers  would  say,'  he  urged, 
'if  a  bishop  were  to  consult  this  Witch  of  Endor.* 

'  Oh,  but  really,  it  is  only  a  joke  ! ' 

*A  dignitary  of  the  Ciiurch  shouldn't  joke,  Miss 
Norsham,' 

'Why  not,  your  lordship?'  put  in  Cargrim,  amiably. 
'  I  have  heard  that  Richelieu  played  with  a  kitten.* 

'  I  am  not  Richelieu,'  replied  Dr  Pendle,  drily,  '  nor  is 
Mother  Jael  a  kitten.' 

'It's  for  a  charity,  bishop,'  said  Daisy,  imploringly.  *1 
pay  Mother  Jael  for  the  day,  and  give  the  rest  to  Mrs 
Pansey's  Home  for  servants  out  of  work.' 

'Oh,  for  a  charity,'  repeated  Dr  Pendle,  smiling;  'that 
puts  quite  a  different  complexion  on  the  question.  What 
do  you  say,  Mr  Cargrim  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  think  that  your  lordship  can  refuse  the  prayer 
of  these  charming  young  ladies,'  replied  the  chaplain, 
obsequiously. 

Now,  the  bishop  really  wished  to  see  Mother  Jael  in 
order  to  learn  why  she  haunted  him  so  persistently  ;  and  as 
she  had  always  vanished  heretofore,  he  thought  that  the 
present  would  be  a  very  good  time  to  catch  her.  He 
therefore  humoured  the  joke  of  fortune-telling  for  his  own 
satisfaction,  and  explained  as  much  to  the  expectant 
company. 

'  Well,  well,  young  ladies,'  said  he,  good-naturedly,  '  I 
suppose  I  must  consent  to  be  victimised  if  only  to  further 
the  charitable  purposes  of  Mrs  Pansey.  Where  dwells  the 
sybil?' 

'  In  this  tent !     This  way,  your  lordship  ! ' 

Dr  Pendle  advanced  towards  the  gaily-striped  tent, 
smiling  broadly,  and  with  a  playful  shake  of  the  head  at 
the  laughing  nymphs  around,  he  invaded  the  privacy  of 
Mother  Jael.  With  a  sip;h  of  relief  at  hrving  accomplished 
his  [mrposp,  Cargrim  let  fall  the  flap  which  he  had  held  up 
for  the  bi.':iioi)'s  entry,  and  turned  away,  rubbing  his  hands. 
His  aim  was  attained.  It  now  remained  to  be  seen  what 
would  come  of  the  meeting  between  bishop  and  gi[)sy. 

!70 


J 


CHAPTER   XXH 

MR    MOSK    IS    INDISCREET 

While  the  bishop  was  convershig  with  Miss  Whichello 
about  the  engagement  of  George  and  Mab,  the  young 
people  themselves  were  discussing  the  self-same  subject 
with  much  ardour.  Captain  Pendle  had  placed  two  chairs 
near  a  quick-set  hedge,  beyond  the  hearing  of  other 
guests,  and  on  these  he  and  Mab  were  seated  as  closely  as 
was  possible  without  attracting  the  eyes  of  onlookers. 
Their  attitude  and  actions  were  guarded  and  indifferent  for 
the  misleading  of  the  company,  but  their  conversation,  not 
being  likely  to  be  overheard,  was  confidential  and  lover-like 
enough.  No  spectator  from  casual  observation  could  have 
guessed  their  secret. 

'You  must  tell  your  father  about  our  engagement  at 
once,'  said  Mab,  with  decision.  '  He  should  have  known  of 
it  before  I  consented  to  wear  this  ring.' 

'  I'll  tell  him  to-morrow,  dearest,  although  I  am  sorry 
that  Lucy  and  the  mater  are  not  here  to  support  me.' 

•  But  you  don't  think  that  he  will  object  to  me,  George?* 

•  I  —  should  —  think  —  not ! '  replied  Captain  Pendle, 
smiling  at  the  very  idea;  'object  to  have  the  prettiest 
daughter-in-law  in  the  county.  You  don't  know  what  an 
eye  for  beauty  the  bishop  has.' 

'  If  you  are  so  sure  of  his  consent  I  wonder  you  did  not 
tell  him  before,'  pouted  Mab.  'Aunty  has  been  very  angry 
at  my  keeping  our  engagement  secret.' 

'  Darling,  you  know  it  isn't  a  secret.  We  told  Cargrim, 
and  when  he  is  aware  of  it  the  whole  town  is.  I  didn't 
want  to  tell  my  father  until  I  was  sure  you  would  marry 
me.' 

•  You  have  been  sure  of  that  for  a  long  time.' 

'  In  a  sort  of  way,'  asserted  Captain  Pendle  ;  '  but  I  was 
171 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

not  absolutely  certain  until  I  placed  a  ring  on  that  pretty 
hand.  Now  I'll  tell  my  father,  get  his  episcopalian  bene- 
diction, and  wire  the  news  to  Lucy  and  ih2  mater.  We 
shall  be  married  in  spring.  Miss  Whichello  will  be  the 
bridesmaid,  and  all  will  be  hay  and  sunshine.' 

•  What  nonsense  you  talk,  George  ! ' 

•I'd  do  more  than  talk  nonsense  if  the  eyes  of  Europe 
were  not  on  us.  Mother  Jael  is  telling  fortunes  in  that 
tent,  my  fairy  queen,  so  let  us  go  in  and  question  her  about 
the  future.  Besides,'  added  George,  with  an  insinuating 
smile,  'I  don't  suppose  she  would  mind  if  I  gave  you  one 
kiss.' 

Mab  laughed  and  shook  her  head.  'You  will  have  to 
dispense  with  both  kiss  and  fortune  for  the  present,'  said 
she,  '  for  your  father  has  this  moment  gone  into  the  tent' 

•  What !  is  Saul  also  among  the  prophets?'  cried  George, 
with  uplifted  eyebrows.  *  Won't  there  be  a  shine  in  the  tents 
of  Shem  when  it  is  published  abroad  that  Bishop  Pendle 
has  patronised  the  Witch  of  Endor.  I  wrjnder  what  he 
wants  to  know.    Surely  the  scroll  of  his  fortune  is  made  up.' 

'George,'  said  Mab,  gravely,  'your  father  has  been 
much  worried  lately.' 

•  About  what  ?     By  whom  ? ' 

*I  don't  know,  but  he  looks  worried,* 
*0h,    he   is   fidgeting  because  my  mother  is  away;  he 
tlways  fusses  about  her  health  like  a  hen  with  one  chick.' 

•  Be  more  respectful,  my  dear,'  corrected  Mab,  demurely. 

•  I'll  be  anything  you  like,  sweet  prude,  if  you'll  only  fly 
with  me  far  from  this  madding  crowd.  Hang  it  1  here  is 
someone  coming  to  disturb  us.' 

'  It  is  your  brother.' 

'So  it  is.     Hullo,  Gabriel,  why  that  solemn  brow?* 

•  I  have  just  heard  bad  news,'  said  Gabriel,  pausing 
before  them.     '  Old  Mr  Leigh  is  dying.' 

'  What !  the  rector  of  Heathcroft  ?  I  don't  call  that  bad 
news,  old  boy,  seeincj  that  his  death  gives  you  your  step.' 

•  George ! '  cried  Mab  and  Gabriel  in  a  breath,  '  how  can 
you?' 

•Well,  Leigh  is  old  and  ripe  enough  to  die,  isn't  he?' 
said  the  incorrigible  George.  '  Remember  what  the  old 
Scotch  sexton  said  to  the  weeping  mourners,  "  Wliat  are  ye 

172 


Mr  Mosk  is  Indiscreet 

greeting  aboot?  If  ye  dinna  bring  them  at  eighty,  when 
wuU  ye  bring  them?"  My  Scotch  accent  is  bad,'  added 
Captain  Pendle,  'but  the  story  itself  is  a  thing  of  beauty.' 

'  I  want  to  tell  my  father  the  news,'  said  Gabriel,  indig- 
nantly turning  away  from  George's  wink.     '  Where  is  he  ? ' 

'  With  Moth —  Oh,  there  he  is,'  cried  Mab,  as  the  bishop 
issued  from  the  sibyl's  tent.    '  Oh,  George,  how  ill  he  looks ! ' 

'  By  Jove,  yes  !  He  is  as  pale  as  a  ghost.  Come  and  see 
what  is  wrong,  Gabriel.     Excuse  me  a  moment,  Mab.' 

The  two  brothers  walked  forward,  but  before  they  could 
reach  their  father  he  was  already  taking  his  leave  and  shak- 
ing hands  with  Mrs  Pansey.  His  face  was  white,  his  eyes 
were  anxious,  and  it  was  only  by  sheer  force  of  will  that  he 
could  excuse  himself  to  his  hostess  in  his  ordinary  voice. 

•lam  afraid  the  sun  has  been  too  much  for  me,  Mrs 
Pansey,'  he  said  in  his  usual  sauve  tones,  'and  the  close 
atmosphere  of  that  tent  is  rather  trying.  I  regret  being 
obliged  to  leave  so  charming  a  scene,  but  I  feel  sure  you 
will  excuse  me.' 

•  Certainly,  bishop,'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  graciously  enough, 
•but  won't  you  have  a  glass  of  sherry  or — ' 

•  Nothing,  thank  you ;  nothing.  Good-bye,  Mrs  Pansey ; 
your  fete  has  been  most  successful.  Ah,  Gabriel,'  catching 
sight  of  his  youngest  son,  *  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  come 
with  me?' 

•Are  you  ill,  sir?'  asked  George,  with  solicitude. 

•  No,  no !  a  little  out  of  sorts,  perhaps.  The  sun,  merely 
the  sun;*  and  waving  his  hand  in  a  hurried  manner,  Dr 
Pendle  withdrew  as  quickly  as  his  dignity  permitted,  lean- 
ing on  Gabriel's  arm.  The  curate's  face  was  as  colourless 
as  that  of  his  father,  and  he  seemed  equally  as  nervous  in 
manner.  Captain  Pendle  returned  to  Mab  in  a  state  of 
bewilderment,  for  which  there  was  surely  sufficient  cause. 

•  I  never  saw  the  bishop  so  put  out  before,'  said  he  with 
a  puzzled  look.  '  Old  Mother  Jael  must  have  prophesied 
blue  ruin  and  murder.' 

Murder !  The  ominous  word  struck  on  the  ears  of  Car- 
grim,  who  was  passing  at  the  moment,  and  he  smiled  cruelly 
as  he  heard  the  half-joking  tone  in  which  it  was  spoken. 
Captain  George  Pendle  little  thought  that  the  chaplain  took 
his  jesting  speech  in  earnest,  and  was  more  convinced  than 

*73 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

ever  that  the  bishop  had  killed  Jentham,  and  had  just  been 
warned  by  Mother  Jael  that  she  knew  the  truth.  This 
then,  as  Cargrim  considered,  was  her  reason  for  hauntng 
the  bishop  in  his  incomings  and  outgoings. 

Of  course  it  was  impossible  that  the  bishop's  agitation 
could  have  escaped  the  attention  of  the  assembled  guests, 
and  many  remarks  were  made  as  to  its  probaljle  cause.  His 
sudden  illness  at  his  own  reception  was  recalled,  and,  taken 
in  conjunction  with  this  seizure,  it  was  observed  that  Dr 
Pendle  was  working  too  hard,  that  his  constitution  was 
breaking  up  and  that  he  sadly  needed  a  rest.  The  opinion 
on  this  last  point  was  unanimous. 

'For  I  will  say,'  remarked  Mrs  Pansey,  who  was  an  adept 
at  damning  with  faint  praise,  'that  the  bishop  works  as  hard 
as  his  capacity  of  brain  will  let  him.* 

'And  that  is  a  great  deal,'  said  Dr  Graham,  tartly. 
•Bishop  Pendle  is  one  of  the  cleverest  men  in  England.' 

'  That  is  right,  doctor,'  replied  the  undaunted  Mrs  Pansey. 
'Always  speak  well  of  your  patients.' 

Altogether,  so  high  stood  the  bishop's  reputation  as  a 
transparently  honest  man  that  no  one  suspected  anything 
was  wrong  save  Graham  and  Mr  Cargrim.  The  former 
remembered  Dr  Pendle's  unacknowledged  secret,  and 
wondered  if  the  gipsy  was  in  possession  of  it,  while  the 
latter  was  satisfied  that  the  bishop  had  been  driven  away 
by  the  fears  roused  by  Mother  Jael's  communication,  what- 
ever that  might  be.  But  the  general  opinion  was  that  too 
much  work  and  too  much  sun  had  occasioned  the  bishop's 
illness,  and  it  was  spoken  of  very  lightly  as  a  mere  temporary 
ailment  soon  to  be  set  rig'it  by  complete  change  and  com- 
plete rest.  Thus  Dr  Pendle's  reputation  of  the  past  stood 
him  in  good  stead,  and  saved  his  character  thoroughly  in 
the  present. 

'Now,'  said  Cargrim  to  himself,  'I  know  for  certain  that 
Motlier  Jael  is  aware  of  the  tr'.ith,  also  that  the  truth  im- 
plicates the  bishop  in  Jentham's  death.  I  shall  just  go  in 
and  question  her  at  once.  She  can't  escape  from  that  tent 
so  easily  as  she  vanished  the  other  day.' 

But  Cargrim  quite  underrated  Mother  Jael's  power  of 
making  herself  scarce,  for  when  he  entered  the  tent  he 
found  it  tenanted  only  by  Daisy  Norsham,  who  was  looking 

^74 


Mr  Mosk  is  Indiscreet 

in  some  bewilderment  at  an  empty  chair.     The  cunning  old 
gipsy  had  once  more  melted  into  thin  air, 

'Where  is  she?'  demanded  Cargrim,  regretting  that  his 
clerical  garb  prevented  him  from  using  appropriate  language. 

*  Oh,  really,  dear  Mr  Cargrim,  I  don't  know.  After  the 
dear  bishop  came  out  so  upset  with  the  heat,  we  all  ran  to 
look  after  him,  so  I  suppose  Mother  Jael  felt  the  heat  also, 
and  left  while  our  backs  were  turned.  It  is  really  very 
vexing,'  sighed  Daisy,  *  for  lots  of  girls  are  simply  dying  to 
have  their  fortunes  told.  And,  oh  ! '  making  a  sudden  dis- 
covery, '  how  very,  very  dreadful  ! ' 

*  What  is  it  ? '  asked  the  chaplain,  staring  at  her  tragic  face. 

*  That  wicked  old  woman  has  taken  all  the  money.  Oh, 
poor  Mrs  Pansey's  home  ! ' 

'  She  has  no  doubt  run  off  with  the  money,'  said  Cargrim, 
in  what  was  for  him  a  savage  tone.  '  I  must  question  the 
servants  about  her  departure.  Miss  Norsham,  I  am  afraid 
that  your  beautiful  nature  has  been  imposed  upon  by  this 
deceitful  vagrant.' 

Whether  this  was  so  or  not,  one  thing  was  clear  that 
Mother  Jael  had  gone  oft  with  a  considerable  amount  of 
loose  silver  in  her  pocket.  The  servants  knew  nothing  of 
her  departure,  so  there  was  no  doubt  that  the  old  crone, 
used  to  docging  and  hiding,  had  slipped  out  of  the  garden 
by  some  back  way,  while  the  guests  had  been  commiserat- 
ing the  bishop's  slight  illness.  As  Cargrim  wanted  to  see 
the  gipsy  at  once,  and  hoped  to  force  her  into  confessing 
the  truth  by  threatening  to  have  her  arrested  with  the  stolen 
money  in  her  pocket,  he  followed  on  her  trail  while  it  was 
yet  fresh.  Certainly  Mother  Jael  had  left  no  particular 
track  by  which  she  could  be  traced,  but  Cargrim,  knowing 
something  of  her  habits,  judged  that  she  would  either  strike 
across  Southberry  Heath  to  the  tents  of  her  tribe  or 
take  refuge  for  the  time  being  at  The  Derby  Winner.  It 
was  more  probable  that  she  would  go  to  the  hotel  than  run 
the  risk  of  being  arrested  in  the  gipsy  camp,  so  Cargrim, 
adopting  this  argument,  took  his  way  down  to  Eastgate. 
He  hoped  to  run  Mother  Jael  to  earth  in  the  tap-room  of 
the  hotel. 

On  arriving  at  The  Derby  Winner,  he  walked  straight 
into  the  bar,  and  found  it  presided  over  by  a  grinning  pot- 

175 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

boy.  A  noise  of  singing  and  shouting  came  from  the  little 
parlour  at  the  back,  and  when  the  chaplain  asked  for  Mr 
Mosk,  he  was  informed  by  the  smiling  Ganymede  that  'th' 
j^uv'nor  was  injiyin'  of  hisself,  and  goin'  on  like  one  o'clock.' 

'Dear!  dear!'  said  the  scandalised  chaplain,  'am  I  to 
understand  that  your  master  has  taken  more  than  is  good 
for  him?* 

'  Vuss  ;  he's  jist  drunk  up  to  jollyness,  sir.' 

'And  Miss  Mosk?' 

'She's  a-trj'in'  to  git  'im  t'  bed,  is  young  missus,  an'  old 
missus  is  cryin'  upstairs.' 

*I  shall  certainly  speak  about  this  to  the  authorities,' 
said  Cargrim,  in  an  angry  tone.  'You  are  sober  enough 
to  answer  my  questions,  I  hope  ? ' 

*Yuss,  sir;  I'm  strite,'  growled  the  pot-boy,  pulling  his 
forelock. 

'Then  tell  me  if  that  gipsy  woman,  Mother  Jael,  is  here?* 

'No,  sir,  sh'  ain't.  I  ain't  set  eyes  on  *er  for  I  do'no 
how  long.' 

The  man  spoke  earnestly  enough,  and  was  evidently  tell- 
ing the  truth.  Much  disappointed  to  find  that  the  old 
crone  was  not  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  chaplain  was 
about  to  depart  when  he  heard  Mosk  begin  to  sing  in  a 
husky  voice,  and  also  became  aware  that  Bell,  as  he  judged 
from  the  raised  tones  of  her  voice,  was  scolding  her  father 
thoroughly.  His  sense  of  duty  got  the  better  of  his  anxiety 
to  find  Mother  Jael,  and  feeling  that  his  presence  was 
required,  he  passed  swiftly  to  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
threw  open  the  door  of  the  parlour  with  fine  clericai 
indignation. 

'What  is  all  this  noise,  Mosk?*  he  cried  sharply.  'Do 
you  wish  to  lose  your  license  ? ' 

Mosk,  who  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  smiling  and  sing- 
ing, with  a  very  red  face,  was  struck  dumb  by  the  chaplain's 
sudden  entrance  and  sharp  rebuke.  Bell,  flushed  and 
angered,  was  also  astonished  to  see  Mr  Cargrim,  but  hailed 
his  arrival  with  joy  as  likely  to  have  some  moral  influence 
on  her  riotous  father.  Personally  she  detested  Cargrim,  but 
she  respected  his  cloth,  and  was  glad  to  see  him  wield  the 
thunders  of  his  clerical  position. 

'  That  is  right,  Mr  Cargrim  ! '  she  cried  with  flashing  ey«k 
176 


Mr  Mask  is  Indiscreet 

♦  Tell  him  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  drinking  and  singing 
with  mother  so  ill  upstairs.' 

•I  don't  mean  t'  do  any  'arm,'  said  Mosk,  rising  sheepishly, 
for  the  shock  of  Cargrim's  appearance  sobered  him  a 
good  deal  '  I  wos  jus'  havin'  a  glass  to  celebrate  a  joyful 
day.' 

•Cannot  you  take  your  glass  without  becoming  intoxi- 
cated ? '  said  Cargrim,  in  disgust.  '  I  tell  you  what,  Mosk, 
if  you  go  on  in  this  way,  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to 
warn  Sir  Harry  Brace  against  you.' 

'I  told  you  how  t'would  be,  father,'  put  in  Bell, 
reproachfully. 

'You  onnatural  child,  goin'  agin  your  parent,'  growled 
Mr  Mosk.  *  Wasn't  I  drinking  to  your  health,  'cause  the 
old  'un  at  Heathcroft  wos  passin'  to  his  long  'ome  ?  Tell 
me  that ! ' 

*  What  do  you  mean,  Mosk  ?  *  asked  the  chaplain,  starting. 

*  Nothing,  sir,'  interposed  Bell,  hurriedly.  '  Father  don't 
know  what  he  is  sayin'.* 

*Yes,  I  do,'  contradicted  her  father,  sulkily.  *01d  Mr 
Leigh,  th'  pass'n  of  Heathcroft,  is  dying,  and  when  he  dies 
you'll  live  at  Heathcroft  with — ' 

*  Father !  father !  hold  your  tongue ! ' 

*  With  my  son-in-law  Gabriel ! ' 

*Your — son-in-law,'  gasped  Cargrim,  recoiling.  *Is — is 
your  daughter  the  wife  of  young  Mr  Pendle  ? ' 

'  No,  I  am  not,  Mr  Cargrim,'  cried  Bell,  nervously.  *  It's 
father's  nonsense.' 

'  It's  Bible  truth,  savin'  your  presence,'  said  Mosk,  strik- 
ing the  table.  *  Young  Mr  Pendle  is  engaged  to  marry  you, 
ain't  he?  and  he's  goin'  to  hev  the  livin'  of  Heathcroft, 
ain't  he?  and  old  Leigh's  a-dyin'  fast,  ain't  he?' 

*  Go  on,  father,  you've  done  it  now,'  said  Bell,  resignedly, 
and  sat  down. 

Cargrim  was  almost  too  surprised  to  speak.  The  rector 
of  Heathcroft — dying;  Gabriel  engaged  to  marry  this 
common  woman.  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in 
amazement;  at  the  triumphant  Mosk,  and  the  blushing 
girl. 

*  Is  this  true.  Miss  Mosk  ?  *  he  asked  doubtfully. 

•Yes!     I  am  engaged  to  marry  Gabriel  Pendle,'  cried 
M  177 


TJie  Bishop's  Secret 

Bell,  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  *  Vou  can  tell  the  whole 
town  so  if  you  like.     Neither  he  nor  I  will  contradict  yuu.' 

'It's  as  true  as  true!'  growled  Mosk.  'My  daughter's 
going  to  be  a  lady.' 

'  I  congratulate  you  both,' said  Cargriin,  gravely.  'This 
will  be  a  surprise  to  the  bishop,'  and  feeling  himself  un- 
equal to  the  situation,  he  made  his  escape. 

'  Well,  father,'  said  Bell,  '  this  is  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish, 
this  is ! ' 


17» 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

IN   THE   LIBRARY 

Certainly  there  was  little  enough  to  admire  in  Mr  Car- 
grim's  character,  still  he  was  not  altogether  a  bad  man.  In 
common  with  his  fellow-creatures  he  also  had  his  good 
qualities,  but  these  were  somewhat  rusty  for  want  of  use. 
As  Mrs  Rawdon  Crawley,  nee  Sharp,  remarked,  most  people 
can  be  good  on  five  thousand  a  year ;  and  if  Cargrim  had 
been  high-placed  and  wealthy  he  would  no  doubt  have 
developed  his  better  instincts  for  lack  of  reasons  to  make 
use  of  his  worsen  But  being  only  a  poor  curate,  he  had  a 
long  ladder  to  climb,  which  he  thought  could  be  ascended 
more  rapidly  by  kicking  down  all  those  who  impeded  his 
progress,  and  by  holding  on  to  the  skirts  of  those  who  were 
a  few  rungs  higher.  Therefore  he  was  not  very  nice  in  his 
distinction  between  good  and  evil,  and  did  not  mind  by 
what  means  he  succeeded,  so  long  as  he  was  successful. 
He  knew  very  well  that  he  was  not  a  favourite  with  the 
bishop,  and  that  Dr  Pendle  would  not  give  him  more  of 
the  Levitical  loaves  and  fishes  than  he  could  help ;  but  as 
the  holder  of  the  Beorminster  See  was  the  sole  dispenser  of 
these  viands  with  whom  Cargrim  was  acquainted,  it  be- 
hoved him  at  all  risks  to  compel  the  bestowal  of  gifts 
which  were  not  likely  to  be  given  of  free-will.  Therefore, 
Cargrim  plotted,  and  planned,  and  schemed  to  learn  the 
bishop's  secret  and  set  him  under  his  thumb. 

But  with  all  the  will  in  the  world  this  schemer  was  not 
clever  enough  to  deal  with  the  evidence  he  had  accumu- 
lated. The  bishop  had  had  an  understanding  with  Jentham ; 
he  had  attempted  to  secure  his  silence,  as  was  proved  by  the 
torn-out  butt  of  the  cheque-book;  he  had — as  Cargrim 
suspected — killed  the  blackmailer  to  bury  his  secret  in  the 
grave,  and  he  had  been  warned  by  Mother  Jael  that  she 

179 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

knew  of  his  wicked  act  This  was  tlie  evidence,  but 
Cargrim  did  not  know  how  to  place  it  ship-shape,  in  order 
to  prove  to  Bishop  Pendle  that  he  had  him  in  his  power. 
It  needed  a  trained  mind  to  grapple  with  these  confused 
facts,  to  follow  out  clues,  to  arrange  details,  and  Cargrim 
recognised  that  it  was  needful  to  hire  a  helper.  With  this 
idea  he  resolved  to  visit  London  and  there  engage  the 
services  of  a  private  inquiry  agent ;  and  as  there  was  no 
time  to  be  lost,  he  decided  to  ask  the  bishop  for  leave  of 
absence  on  that  very  night.  There  is  notiiing  so  excellent 
as  prompt  attention  to  business,  even  when  it  consists  of 
the  dirtiest  kind. 

Nevertheless,  to  allow  his  better  nature  some  small 
opportunity  of  exercise,  Cargrim  determined  to  nfTord  the 
bishop  one  chance  of  escape.  The  visit  to  The  Derby 
Winner  had  given  him  at  once  a  weapon  and  a  piece  of 
information.  The  rector  of  Heathcroft  was  dying,  so  in 
the  nature  of  things  it  was  probable  that  the  living  would 
soon  be  vacant.  From  various  hints,  Cargrim  was  aware 
that  the  bishop  destined  this  snug  post  for  his  younger  son. 
But  Gabriel  Pt-ndle  was  engaged  to  marry  Bell  Mosk,  and 
when  the  bishop  was  informed  of  that  fact,  Cargrim  had 
\iVl\c  doubt  but  that  he  would  refuse  to  consecrate  his  son 
to  the  living.  Then,  failing  Gabriel,  the  chaplain  hoped 
that  Dr  Pendle  might  give  it  to  him,  and  if  he  did  so,  Mr 
Cargrim  was  quite  willing  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  He 
would  not  search  out  the  bishop's  secret — at  all  events  for 
the  present — although,  if  Dean  Alder  died,  he  might  make 
a  later  use  of  his  knowledge  to  get  himself  elected  to  the 
vacant  post.  However,  the  immediate  business  in  hand 
was  to  secure  Heathcroft  Rectory  at  the  expense  of  Gabriel ; 
so  Mr  Cargrim  walked  rapidly  to  the  paLxe,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  informing  the  bishop  without  delay  of  the  young 
man's  disgraceful  conduct.  Only  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
interview  could  he  determine  his  future  course.  If,  angered 
at  Gabriel,  the  bishop  gave  him  the  living,  he  would  let 
the  bishop  settle  his  account  with  his  conscience,  but  if 
Dr  Pendle  refused,  he  would  then  go  up  to  London  and 
hire  a  bloodhound  to  follow  the  trail  of  Dr  Pendle's  crime 
even  to  his  very  doorstep.  In  thus  giving  his  patron  an 
alternative,  Cargrim  thought  himself  a  very  virtuous  person 

i8o 


In  the  Library 

indeed.  Yet,  so  far  as  he  knew,  he  might  be  compound- 
ing a  felony ;  but  that  knowledge  did  not  trouble  him  in 
the  least. 

With  this  pretty  little  scheme  in  his  head,  the  chaplain 
entered  the  library  in  which  Dr  Pendle  was  usually  to  be 
found,  and  sure  enough  the  bishop  was  there,  sitting  all 
alone  and  looking  as  wretched  as  a  man  could.  His  face 
was  grey  and  drawn — he  had  aged  so  markedly  since  Mrs 
Pendle's  garden-party  that  Mr  Cargrim  was  quite  shocked — 
and  he  started  nervously  when  his  chaplain  glided  into  the 
room.  A  nerve-storm,  consequent  on  his  interview  with 
Mother  Jael,  had  exhausted  the  bishop's  vitality,  and  he 
seemed  hardly  able  to  lift  his  head.  The  utter  prostration 
of  the  man  would  have  appealed  to  anyone  save  Cargrim, 
but  that  astute  young  parson  had  an  end  to  gain  and  was 
not  to  be  turned  from  it  by  any  display  of  mental  misery. 
He  put  his  victim  on  the  rack,  and  tortured  him  as  deli- 
cately and  scientifically  as  any  Inquisition  of  the  good  old 
days  when  Mother  Church,  anticipating  the  saying  of  the 
French  Revolution,  said  to  the  backsliders  of  her  flock, 
*  Be  my  child,  lest  I  kill  thee.'  So  Cargrim,  like  a  modern 
Torquemada,  racked  the  soul  instead  of  the  body,  and 
devoted  himself  very  earnestly  to  this  congenial  talk. 

'I  beg  3'our  pardon,  my  lord,'  said  he,  making  a 
feint  of  retiring,  ♦  I  did  not  know  that  your  lordship  was 
engaged.' 

'  I  am  not  engaged,'  replied  the  bishop,  seemingly  glad 
to  escape  from  his  own  sad  thoughts ;  '  come  in,  come  in. 
You  have  left  Mrs  Pansey's/^/^  rather  early.' 

'  But  not  so  early  as  you,  sir,'  said  the  chaplain,  taking  a 
chair  where  he  could  command  an  uninterrupted  view  of 
the  bishop's  face.     *  I  fear  you  are  not  well,  my  lord.' 

*  No,  Cargrim,  I  am  not  well.  In  spite  of  my  desire  to 
continue  my  duties,  I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  be  forced  to 
take  a  holiday  for  my  health's  sake.' 

'  Your  lordship  cannot  do  better  than  join  Mrs  Pendle  at 
Nauheim.' 

*  I  was  thinking  of  doing  so,'  said  the  bishop,  glancing  at 
a  letter  at  his  elbow,  'especially  as  Sir  Harry  Brace  is 
coming  back  on  business  to  Beorminster.  I  do  not  wish 
my  wife  to  be  alone  in  her  present  uncertain  state  of  health. 

i8i 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

As  to  my  own,  I'm  afraid  no  springs  will  cure  it;  my  disease 
is  of  the  mind,  not  of  the  body.' 

'Ah!'  sighed  Cargrmi,  sagely,  'the  very  worst  kind  of 
disease.  May  I  ask  what  you  are  troubled  about  in  your 
mind?' 

'  About  many  things,  Cargrim,  many  things.  Amongst 
them  the  fact  of  this  disgraceful  murder.  It  is  a  reflec- 
tion on  the  diocese  that  the  criminal  is  not  caught  and 
punished.' 

'  Does  your  lordship  wish  the  assassin  to  be  captured?' 
asked  the  chaplain,  in  his  softest  tone,  and  with  much 
apparent  simplicity. 

Dr  Pendle  raised  his  head  and  darted  a  keen  look  at  his 
questioner.  'Of  course  I  do,'  he  answered  sharply,  'and  I 
am  much  annoyed  that  our  local  police  have  not  been 
clever  enough  to  hunt  him  down.  Have  you  heard 
whether  any  more  evidence  has  been  found?' 

'None  likely  to  indicate  the  assassin,  my  lord.  But  I 
believe  that  the  police  have  gathered  some  information 
about  the  victim's  past.' 

The  bishop's  hand  clenched  itself  so  tightly  that  the 
knuckles  whitened.  'About  Jenthaml'he  muttered  in  a 
low  voice,  and  not  looking  at  the  chaplain;  'ay,  ay,  what 
about  him?' 

'  It  seems,  my  lord,'  said  Cargrim,  watchful  of  his  com- 
panion's face,  '  that  thirty  years  ago  the  man  was  a  violinist 
in  London  and  his  professional  name  was  Amaru.' 

'A  violinist!  Amaru!'  repeated  Dr  Pendle,  and  looked 
so  relieved  that  Cargrim  saw  he  had  not  received  the 
answer  he  expected.     'A  professional  name  you  say?' 

'Yes,  your  lordship,'  replied  the  chaplain,  trying  hard  to 
conceal  his  disappointment.  'No  doubt  the  man's  real 
name  was  Jentham.' 

'No  doubt,'  assented  the  bishop,  indifferently,  'although 
I  daresay  so  notorious  a  vagrant  must  have  possessed  at 
least  half  a  dozen  names.' 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Cargrim's  tongue  to  ask  by  wliat 
name  Jentham  had  been  known  to  his  superior,  but  restrained 
by  the  knowledge  of  his  incapacity  to  follow  up  the  question, 
he  was  wise  enough  not  to  put  it.  Also,  as  he  wished  to 
come  to  an  understanding  with  the  bishop  on  the  subject 

182 


In  the  Library 

of  the  Heathcroft  living,  he  turned  the  conversation  in  that 
direclion  by  remarking  that  Mr  Leigh  was  reported  as 
dying. 

'  So  Gabriel  informed  me,'  said  Dr  Pendle,  with  a  nod. 
'  I  am  truly  sorry  to  hear  it.  Mr  Leigh  has  been  rector  of 
Heathcroft  parish  for  many  years.' 

'  For  twenty-five  years,  your  lordship  ;  but  latterly  he  has 
been  rather  lax  in  his  rule.  What  is  needed  in  Heathcroft 
is  a  young  and  earnest  man  with  a  capacity  for  organisation, 
one  who  by  words  and  deeds  may  be  able  to  move  the 
sluggish  souls  of  the  parishioners,  who  can  contrive  and 
direct  and  guide.' 

'You  describe  an  ideal  rector,  Cargrim,'  remarked  Dr 
Pendle,  rather  dryly,  *  a  kind  of  bishop  in  embryo ;  but 
where  is  such  a  paragon  to  be  found  ? ' 

The  chaplain  coloured  and  looked  conscious.  '  I  do  not 
describe  myself  as  a  paragon,'  said  he,  in  a  low  voice ; 
'  nevertheless,  should  your  lordship  think  fit  to  present  me 
with  the  Heathcroft  cure  of  souls,  I  should  strive  to 
approach  in  some  decree  the  ideal  I  have  described.' 

The  bishop  was  no  stranger  to  Cargrim's  ambition,  as  it 
was  not  the  first  time  that  the  chaplain  had  hinted  that  he 
would  make  a  good  rector  of  Heathcroft,  therefore  he  did 
not  feel  surprised  at  being  approached  so  crudely  on  the 
subject.  With  a  testy  gesture  he  pushed  back  his  chair 
and  looked  rather  frowningly  on  the  presumptuous  parson. 
But  Cargrim  was  too  sure  of  his  ability  to  deal  with  the 
bishop  to  be  daunted  by  looks,  and  with  his  sleek  head  on 
one  side  and  a  suave  smile  on  his  pale  lips,  he  waited  for 
the  thunders  from  the  episcopalian  throne.  However,  the 
bishop  was  just  as  diplomatic  as  his  chaplain,  and  too  wise 
to  give  way  to  the  temper  he  felt  at  so  downright  a  request, 
approached  the  matter  in  an  outwardly  mild  spirit. 

*  Heathcroft  is  a  large  parish,'  said  his  lordship,  medita- 
tively. 

*  And  therefore  needs  a  hard-working  young  rector, 
replied  Cargrim.  ,  *  I  am,  of  course,  aware  of  my  own  de- 
ficiencies, but  these  may  be  remedied  by  prayer  and  by  a 
humble  spirit.' 

*  Mr  Cargrim,'  said  the  bishop,  with  a  smile,  '  do  you 
remember  the  rather  heterodox  story  of  the  farmer's  coni- 

183 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

ment  on  prayer  being  offered  up  for  rain?  "  What  is  the  use 
of  praying  for  rain,"  said  he,  "  when  the  wind  is  in  this 
quarter?"  I  am  inclined,' added  l)r  Pendle,  looking  very 
intently  at  Cargrim,  '  to  agree  with  the  farmer.' 

'  Does  that  mean  that  your  lordship  will  not  give  me  the 
living  ? ' 

*  We  will  come  to  that  later,  Mr  Cargrim.  At  present  I 
mean  that  no  prayers  will  remedy  our  deficiencies  unless  the 
desire  to  do  so  begins  in  our  own  breasts.' 

'Will  your  lordship  indicate  the  particular  deficiencies  I 
should  remedy?'  asked  the  chaplain,  outwardly  calm,  but 
inwardly  raging. 

•  I  think,  Mr  Cargrim,'  said  the  bishop,  gently,  *  that  your 
ambition  is  apt  to  take  precedence  of  your  religious  feelings, 
else  you  would  hardly  adopt  so  extreme  a  course  as  to  ask 
me  so  bluntly  for  a  living.  If  I  deemed  it  advisable  that 
you  should  be  rector  of  Heathcroft,  I  should  bestow  it  on 
you  without  the  necessity  of  your  asking  me  to  give  it  to 
you  ;  but  to  be  plain  with  you,  Mr  Cargrim,  I  have  other 
designs  when  the  living  becomes  vacant' 

'  In  that  case,  we  need  say  no  more,  your  lordship.' 
'Pardon  me,  you  must  permit  me  to  say  this  much,'  said 
Dr  PenJie,  in  his  most  stately  manner,  '  that  I  desire  you  to 
continue  in  your  present  position  until  you  have  more  ex- 
perience in  diocesan  work.  It  is  not  every  young  man,  Mr 
Cargrim,  who  has  so  excellent  an  opportunity  of  acquaint- 
ing himself  with  the  internal  management  of  the  Catholic 
Church.  Your  father  was  a  dear  friend  of  mine,'  con- 
tin.iied  the  bishop,  with  emotion,  'and  in  my  younger  days  I 
owed  him  much.  For  his  sake,  and  for  your  own,  I  wish  to 
help  you  as  much  as  I  can,  but  you  must  permit  me  to  be 
the  best  judge  of  when  and  how  to  advance  your  interests. 
These  ambitions  of  yours,  Michael,  which  I  have  observed 
on  several  occasions,  are  dangerous  to  your  better  qualities. 
A  clergyman  of  our  Church  is  a  man,  and — being  a  priest 
— something  more  than  a  man  ;  therefore  it  behoves  him 
to  be  humble  and  religious  and  intent  upon  his  immediate 
work  for  the  glory  of  God  Should  he  rise,  it  must  be  by 
such  qualities  that  he  attains  a  higher  post  in  the  Church  ; 
but  should  he  remain  all  his  days  in  a  humble  position,  he 
can  die  content,  knowing  he  has  thought  not  of  himself 

184 


In  the  Library 

but  of  his  God.  Believe  me,  my  dear  young  friend,  I  speak 
from  experience,  and  it  is  better  for  you  to  leave  your 
future  in  my  hands.' 

These  sentiments,  being  the  antithesis  to  those  of  Cargrim, 
were  of  course  extremely  unpalatable  to  one  of  his  nature. 
He  knew  that  he  was  more  ambitious  than  religious;  but 
it  was  galling  to  think  that  Dr  Pendle  should  have  been 
clever  enough  to  cjauge  his  character  so  truly.  His  mask 
of  humility  and  deference  had  been  torn  off,  and  he  was 
better  known  to  the  bishop  than  was  at  all  agreeable  to 
his  cunning  nature.  He  saw  that  so  far  as  the  Heathcroft 
living  was  concerned  he  would  never  obtain  it  as  a  free 
gift  from  Dr  Pendle,  therefore  it  only  remained  to  adopt 
the  worser  course,  and  force  the  prelate  to  accede  to  his 
request.  Having  thus  decided,  Mr  Cargrim,  with  great 
self-control,  smoothed  his  face  to  a  meek  smile,  and  even 
displayed  a  little  emotion  m  order  to  show  the  bishop  how 
touched  he  was  by  the  kindly  speech  which  had  crushed 
his  ambition. 

•I  am  quite  content  to  leave  my  future  in  your  hands,' 
he  said,  with  all  possible  suavity,  'and  indeed,  my  lord,  I 
know  that  you  are  my  best — my  only  friend.  The  de- 
ficiency to  which  you  allude  shall  be  conquered  by  me  if 
possible,  and  I  trust  that  shortly  I  shall  merit  your  lord- 
ship's more  unreserved  approbation.' 

'  Why,'  said  the  bishop,  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand, 
'that  is  a  very  worthy  speech,  Michael,  and  I  shall  bear  it 
in  mind.  We  are  still  friends,  I  trust,  in  spite  of  what  I 
consider  it  was  my  duty  to  say.' 

•  Certainly  we  are  friends,  sir ;  I  am  honoured  by  the 
interest  you  take  in  me.  And  now,  my  lord,'  added 
Cargrim,  with  a  sweet  smile,  '  may  I  prefer  a  little  request 
which  was  in  my  mind  when  I  came  to  see  you?' 

•  Of  course !  of  course,  Michael ;  what  is  it  ?  * 

•I  have  some  business  to  transact  in  London,  my  lord; 
and  I  should  like,  with  your  permission,  to  be  absent  from 
my  duties  for  a  few  days.' 

'With  pleasure,'  assented  the  bishop;  'go  when  you  like, 
Oargrim.  I  am  only  too  pleased  that  you  should  ask  me 
for  a  holiday.' 

•  Many  thanks,  your  lordship,'  said  Cargrim,  rising.    '  Then 

13  185 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

I  shall  leave  the  palace  to-morrow  morning,  and  will  return 
towards  the  end  of  the  week.  As  there  is  nothing  of 
particular  importance  to  attend  to,  I  trust  your  lordship 
will  be  able  to  dispense  with  my  services  during  my  few 
days'  absence  without  trouble  to  yourself.' 

'Set  your  mind  at  rest,  Cargrirn ;  you  can  take  your 
holiday.' 

'  I  again  thank  your  lordship.  It  only  remains  for  me 
to  say  that  if — as  I  have  heard — your  lordship  intends  to 
make  Mr  Gabriel  rector  of  Heathcroft,  I  trust  he  will  be 
as  earnest  and  devout  there  as  he  has  been  in  Beorminster.' 

*  I  have  not  yet  decided  how  to  fill  up  the  vacancy,'  said 
the  bishop,  coldly,  'and  let  me  remind  you,  Mr  Cargrim,  that 
as  yet  the  present  rector  of  Heathcroft  still  holds  the  living.' 

'  I  do  but  anticipate  the  inevitable,  my  lord,'  said  Car- 
grim,  preparing  to  drive  his  sting  into  the  bishop,  'and 
certainly,  the  sooner  Mr  Gabriel  is  advanced  to  the  living 
the  better  it  will  be  for  his  matrimonial  prospects.' 

Dr  Pendle  stared.  '  I  don't  understand  you  I  *  he  said 
stifny. 

'  NVhat ! '  Mr  Cargrim  threw  up  his  hands  in  astonish- 
ment. *  Has  not  Mr  Gabriel  informed  your  lordship  of  his 
engagement  ? ' 

'  Engagement  I '  echoed  the  bishop,  half  rising,  '  do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  Gabriel  is  engaged,  and  without  my 
knowledge ! ' 

*  Oh,  your  lordship  ! — I  thought  you  knew — most  indis- 
■crcet  of  me,*  murmured  Cargrim,  in  pretended  confusion. 

*  To  whom  is  my  son  engaged  ? '  asked  the  bishop, 
sharply. 

'To — to  —  really,  I  feel  most  embarrassed,'  said  the 
chaplain.     '  I  should  not  have  taken — ' 

'Answer  at  once,  sir,'  cried  Dr  Pendle,  irritably.  'To 
whom  is  my  son  Gabriel  engaged  ?     I  insist  upon  knowing.' 

'  In  that  case,  I  must  tell  your  lordship  that  Mr  Gabriel 
is  engaged  to  marry  Miss  Bell  Mosk ! ' 

The  bishop  bounded  out  of  his  chair.  '  Bell  Mosk  I  the 
daughter  of  the  landlord  of  The  Derby  Winner?' 

'  Yes,  your  lordship.' 

'  The — the — the — barmaid  1  My  son  ! — oh,  it  is — it  is 
impossible  1 ' 

i86 


1 


In  the  Library 

•  I  had  it  from  the  lips  of  the  young  lady  herself,'  said 
Cargrim,  delighted  at  the  bishop's  annoyance.  •  Certainly 
Miss  Mosk  is  hardly  fitted  to  be  the  wife  of  a  future  rector 
— still,  she  is  a  handsome — * 

'  Stop,  sir ! '  cried  the  bishop,  imperiously,  ^  don't  dare 
to  couple  my  son's  name  with  that  of — of — of  a  barmaid. 
I  cannot — I  will  not — I  dare  not  believe  it  1  * 

•  Nevertheless,  it  is  true  ! ' 

•  Impossible  !  incredible  !  the  boy  must  be  mad !' 

'He  is  in  love,  which  is  much  the  same  thing,*  said 
Cargrim,  with  more  boldness  than  he  usually  displayed 
before  Dr  Pendle ;  '  but  to  assure  yourself  of  its  truth,  let 
me  suggest  that  your  lordship  should  question  Mr  Gabriel 
yourself.     I  believe  he  is  in  the  palace.' 

•Thank  you,  Mr  Cargrim,'  said  the  bishop,  recovering 
from  his  first  surprise.  '  I  thank  you  for  the  information, 
but  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  misled.  My  son  would  never 
choose  a  wife  out  of  a  bar.* 

'  It  is  to  be  hoped  he  will  see  the  folly  of  doing  so,  my 
lord,*  replied  the  chaplain,  backing  towards  the  door,  '  and 
now  I  shall  take  my  leave,  assuring  your  lordship  that  I 
should  never  have  spoken  of  Mr  Gabriel's  engagement  had 
I  not  believed  that  you  were  informed  on  the  point' 

The  bishop  made  no  reply,  but  sank  into  a  chair,  looking 
the  picture  of  misery.  After  a  glance  at  him,  Cargrim  left 
the  room,  rubbing  his  hands.  '  I  think  I  have  given  you  a 
very  good  Roland  for  your  Oliver,  my  lord  1 '  be  murmured. 


13 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    BISHOP  ASSERTS   HIMSELF 

On  being  left  alone,  the  bishop  sat  motionless  In  his  chair 
for  some  considerable  time.  The  information  conveyed 
by  Cargrim  struck  at  his  pride,  but  in  his  heart  he  knew 
well  that  he  had  as  little  right  to  be  proud  as  to  resent  the 
blow.  Casting  a  look  over  the  past,  he  saw  that  Dr  Graham 
had  been  right  in  his  reference  to  the  Ring  of  Polycrates, 
for  although  he  was  outwardly  still  prosperous  and  high- 
placed,  shame  had  come  upon  him,  and  evil  was  about  to 
befall.  From  the  moment  of  Jentham's  secret  visit  a 
blight  had  fallen  on  his  fortunes,  a  curse  had  come  upon 
his  house,  and  in  a  thousand  hidden  ways  he  had  been 
tortured,  although  for  no  fault  of  his  own.  There  was  his 
secret  which  he  did  not  dare  even  to  think  of;  there  was 
the  enforced  absence  of  his  wife  and  daughter,  whom  he 
had  been  compelled  to  send  away  ;  there  was  the  hidden 
enmity  of  Cargrim,  which  he  did  not  know  how  to  baffle ; 
and  now  there  was  the  shame  of  Gabriel's  engagement  to 
a  barmaid ;  of  George's  choice  of  a  wife,  who,  if  rumour 
could  be  believed,  was  the  daughter  of  a  scoundrel.  With 
these  ills  heaped  upon  his  head,  the  bishop  did  not  know 
how  he  could  ever  raise  it  again. 

Still,  all  these  woes  were  locked  up  in  his  own  breast, 
and  to  the  world  he  was  yet  the  popular,  prosperous  Bishop 
of  Beornnnster.  This  impression  and  position  he  was 
resolved  to  maintain  at  all  costs,  therefore,  to  put  an  end 
to  his  last  trouble,  he  concluded  to  speak  seriously  to  his 
sons  on  the  subject  of  unequal  marriages.  A  pressure  of 
the  electric  button  summoned  the  servant,  who  was  in- 
structed to  request  Captain  Pendle  and  Mr  Gabriel  to  see 
their  father  at  once  in  the  library.  It  would  seem  as 
though  they  almost  expected   the  message,  for  in  a  few 

z88 


The  Bishop  Asserts  Himself 

minutes  they  were  both  in  the  room ;  George,  with  his 
usual  jaunty,  confident  air,  but  Gabriel  with  an  anxious 
look.  Yet  neither  of  the  young  men  guessed  why  the 
bishop  had  sent  for  them ;  least  of  all  George,  who  never 
dreamed  for  a  moment  that  his  father  would  oppose  his 
engagement  with  Mab  Arden. 

'  Sit  down,  both  of  you,'  said  Dr  Pendle,  in  grave  tones, 
'  I  have  something  serious  to  say,'  and  the  bishop  took 
up  an  imposing  position  on  the  hearthrug.  The  two  sons 
looked  at  one  another. 

•  There  is  no  bad  news  from  Nauheim,  I  hope,  sir  ? '  said 
George,  quite  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  this  exordium. 

*No.  Lucy's  last  letter  about  your  mother  was  very 
cheerful  indeed.  I  wish  to  speak  seriously  to  both  of  you. 
As  you  are  the  elder,  George,  I  shall  begin  with  you ; 
Gabriel,  I  shall  reason  with  later.' 

•  Reason  with  me,'  wondered  the  curate.  *  Have  I  been 
doing  anything  which  requires  me  to  be  reasoned  with?' 
and  he  gave  a  half  smile,  never  thinking  how  soon  his  jest 
would  be  turned  into  bitter  earnest. 

•  I  think  a  word  in  season  will  do  you  no  harm,'  answered 
his  father,  austerely,  *  but  I  shall  address  myself  to  George 
first' 

•I  am  all  attention,  sir,'  said  the  captain,  rather  weary 
of  this  solemnity.     '  What  have  I  done  ? ' 

'  You  have  concealed  from  me  the  fact  of  your  engage- 
ment to  Miss  Arden.' 

•  Oh ! '  cried  George,  smiling,  *  so  Miss  Whichello  has 
been  speaking  ! ' 

•  Yes,  she  spoke  to  me  to-day,  and  told  me  that  you  had 
formally  engaged  yourself  to  her  niece  without  my  know- 
ledge or  sanction.  May  I  inquire  your  reason  for  so 
singular  a  course?' 

'Is  it  singular,  sir?'  asked  George,  in  a  half-joking  tone. 
'  I  always  understood  that  it  was  first  necessary  to  obtain 
the  lady's  consent  before  making  the  matter  public.  I 
asked  Mab  to  be  my  wife  when  I  last  visited  Beorminster, 
and  I  intended  to  tell  you  of  it  this  time,  but  I  find  that 
Miss  Whichello  has  saved  me  the  trouble.  However,  now 
that  you  know  the  truth,  sir,'  said  Captain  Pendle,  with  his 
sunny  smile,  *  may  I  ask  for  your  approval  and  blessing  ? ' 

189 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

*  You  may  ask,'  said  the  bishop,  coldly,  '  but  you  shall 
have  neither.' 

'  Father ! '  The  answer  was  so  unexpected  that  George 
jumped  up  from  his  chair  with  a  cry  of  surprise,  and  even 
Gabriel,  who  was  in  the  secret  of  his  brother's  love  for  Mab, 
looked  astonished  and  pained. 

'  I  do  not  approve  of  the  engagement,'  went  on  the  bishop, 
imperturbably. 

'You — do — not  —  approve  —  of — Mab!'  said  Captain 
Pendle,  slowly,  and  his  face  became  pale  with  anger. 

'  I  said  nothing  about  the  lady,'  corrected  the  bishop, 
haughtily ;  '  you  will  be  pleased,  sir,  to  take  my  words  as 
I  speak  them.     I  do  not  approve  of  the  engagement.' 

•On  what  grounds?'  asked  George,  quietly  enough. 

•I  know  nothing  about  Miss  Arden's  parents.' 

'She  is  the  daughter  of  Miss  Whichcllo's  sister.' 

'  I  am  aware  of  that,  but  what  about  her  father  ? ' 

*  Her  father ! '  repeated  George,  rather  perplexed.  *  I  never 
inquired  about  her  father;  I  do  not  know  anything  about 
him.' 

'  Indeed ! '  said  the  bishop,  *it  is  just  as  well  that  you  do  not .' 

Captain  Pendle  looked  disturbed.  'Is  there  anything 
wrong  with  him?'  he  asked  nervously.  *I  thought  he 
was  dead  and  buried  ages  ago.' 

'  I  believe  he  is  dead ;  but  from  all  accounts  he  was  a 
scoundrel.' 

'From  whose  account,  bishop?* 

*  Mrs  Pansey's  for  one.' 

'  Father ! '  cried  Gai  iriel, '  surely  you  knowthat  Mrs  Pansey's 
gossip  is  most  unreliable.' 

'Not  in  this  instance,'  replied  the  bishop,  promptly. 
•Mrs  Pansey  told  me  some  twenty-six  years  ago,  when 
Miss  Whichello  brought  her  niece  to  this  city,  that  the 
child's  father  was  little  better  than  a  gaol-bird.' 

•Did  she  know  him?*  asked  Georgf,  sharply. 

•That  I  cannot  say,  but  she  assured  me  that  she  spoke 
the  truth.  I  paid  no  attention  to  her  talk,  nor  did  I  question 
Miss  Whichello  on  the  subject.  In  those  days  it  had  no 
interest  for  me,  but  now  that  I  find  my  son  desires  to  marry 
the  girl,  I  must  refuse  my  consent  until  I  learn  all  about  her 
birth  and  parentage.' 

190 


The  Bishop  Asserts  Himself 

*  Miss  Whichello  will  tell  us  about  that  1  *  said  George, 

hopefully. 

'  Let  us  trust  that  Miss  Whichello  dare  tell  us.' 

'  Dare,  sir ! '  cried  Captain  Pendle,  gnawing  his  moustache. 

'  I  used  the  word  advisedly,  George.  If  what  Mrs  Pansey 
asserts  is  true,  Miss  Whichello  will  feel  a  natural  reluctance 
to  confess  the  truth  about  Miss  Arden's  father.' 

'  Admitting  as  much,'  urged  Gabriel,  seeing  that  George 
kept  silent,  '  surely  you  will  not  visit  the  sins  of  the  father 
on  the  innocent  child  ? ' 

*  It  is  scriptural  law,  my  son.* 

'  It  is  not  the  law  of  Christ,'  replied  the  curate. 

*  Law  or  no  law ! '  said  Captain  Pendle,  determinedly,  *  I 
shall  not  give  Mab  up.  Her  father  may  have  been  a  Nero 
for  all  I  care.  I  marry  his  daughter  all  the  same ;  she  is  a 
good,  pure,  sweet  womaa' 

'  I  admit  that  she  is  all  that,'  said  the  bishop,  *  and  I  do 
not  want  you  to  give  her  up  without  due  inquiry  into  the 
matter  of  which  I  speak.  But  it  is  my  desire  that  you 
should  return  to  your  regiment  until  the  siffair  can  be  sifted.' 

'  Who  should  sift  it  but  I  ? '  inquired  George,  hotly. 

'  If  you  place  it  in  my  hands  all  will — I  trust — be  well,  my 
son.  I  shall  see  Miss  Whichello  and  Mrs  Pansey  and  learn 
the  truth.' 

'  And  if  the  truth  be  as  cruel  as  you  suspect  ?  * 

'  In  that  case,'  said  the  bishop,  slowly, '  I  shall  consider  the 
matter ;  you  must  not  think  that  I  wish  you  to  break  off  your 
engagement  altogether,  George,  but  I  desire  you  to  suspend 
it,  so  to  speak.  For  the  reasons  I  have  stated,  I  disapprove 
of  your  marrying  Miss  Arden,  but  it  may  be  that,  should  I 
be  informed  fully  about  her  father,  I  may  change  my  mind. 
In  the  meantime,  I  wish  you  to  rejoin  your  regiment  and 
remain  with  it  until  I  send  for  you.' 

*  And  if  I  refuse  ? ' 

'In  that  case,'  said  the  bishop,  sternly,  'I  shall  refuse  my 
consent  altogether.  Should  you  refuse  to  ackownledge  my 
authority  I  shall  treat  you  as  a  stranger.  But  I  have  been  a 
good  father  to  you,  George,  and  I  trust  that  you  will  see  fit 
to  obey  me.* 

*  I  am  not  a  child,'  said  Captain  Pendle,  sullenly. 

•You  are  a  man  of  the  world,'  replied  his  father,  skilfully, 
191 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'and  as  snch  must  see  that  I  am  speaking  for  your  own  good. 
I  ask  merely  for  delay,  so  that  the  truth  may  be  known  before 
you  engage  yourself  irrevocably  to  this  young  lady.' 

*  I  look  upon  my  engagement  as  irrevocable  I  I  have 
asked  Mab  to  be  my  wife,  I  have  given  her  a  ring,  I 
have  won  her  heart ;  I  should  be  a  mean  hound,'  cried 
George,  lashing  himself  into  a  rage,  '  if  I  gave  her  up  for 
the  lying  gossip  of  an  old  she-devil  like  Mrs  Pansey.' 

'  Vour  language  is  not  decorous,  sir.' 

•I — I  beg  your  pardon,  father,  but  don't  be  too  hard 
on  me.' 

'  Vour  own  good  sense  should  tell  you  that  I  am  not  hard 
on  you.' 

'  Indeed,'  put  in  Gabriel,  *  I  think  that  my  father  has 
reason  on  his  side,  George.' 

•You  are  not  in  love,'  growled  the  captain,  unconvinced. 

A  pale  smile  flitted  over  Gabriel's  lips,  not  unnoticed  by 
the  bishop,  but  as  he  purposed  speaking  to  him  later,  he 
made  no  remark  on  it  at  the  moment. 

•What  do  you  wish  me  to  do,  sir?'  asked  George,  after  a 
pause. 

'  I  have  told  you,' rejoined  the  bishop,  mildly.  '  I  desire 
you  to  rejoin  your  regiment  and  not  come  back  to  Beor- 
minster  until  I  send  for  you.' 

•  Do  you  object  to  my  seeing  Mab  before  I  go?' 

'  By  no  means  ;  see  both  Miss  Arden  and  Miss  Whichello 
if  you  like,  and  tell  them  both  that  it  is  by  my  desire  you 
go  away.' 

'  Well,  sir,'  said  Captain  Pendle,  slowly,  •  I  am  willing  to 
obey  you  and  return  to  my  work,  but  I  refuse  to  give  up 
Mab,'  and  not  trusting  himself  to  speak  further,  lest  he 
should  lose  his  temper  altogether,  he  abruptly  left  the  room. 
The  bishop  saw  him  retire  with  a  sigh  and  shook  his  head. 
Immediately  afterwards  he  addressed  himself  to  Gabriel,  who, 
with  some  apprehension,  was  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

•Gabriel,'  said  Dr  Pendle,  picking  up  a  letter,  '  Harry  has 
written  to  me  from  Nauheim,  saying  that  he  is  compelled  to 
return  home  on  business.  As  I  do  not  wish  your  mother  and 
Lucy  to  be  alone,  it  is  my  desire  that  you  should  join  them 
— at  once !  * 

The  curate  was  rather  amazed  at  the  peremptory  tone  ol 

192 


The  Bishop  Asserts  Himself 

this  speech,  but  hastened  to  assure  his  father  that  he  was 
quite  willing  to  go.  The  reason  given  for  the  journey 
seemed  to  him  a  sufficient  one,  and  he  had  no  suspicion 
that  his  father's  real  motive  was  to  separate  him  from  Bell. 
The  bishop  saw  that  this  was  the  case,  and  forthwith  came 
to  the  principal  point  of  the  interview. 

*  Do  you  know  why  I  wish  you  to  go  abroad  ? '  he  asked 
sharply. 

*  To  join  my  mother  and  Lucy — ^you  told  me  so.' 

'  That  is  one  reason,  Gabriel ;  but  there  is  another  and 
more  important  one.' 

A  remembrance  of  his  secret  engagement  turned  the 
curate's  face  crimson;  but  he  faltered  out  that  he  did 
Dot  understand  what  his  father  meant. 

*  I  think  you  understand  well  enough,'  said  Dr  Pendle, 
sternly.  *  I  allude  to  your  disgraceful  conduct  in  connec- 
tion with  that  woman  at  The  Derby  Winner.' 

*  If  you  allude  to  my  engagement  to  Miss  Mosk,  sir,'  cried 
Gabriel,  with  spirit,  *  there  is  no  need  to  use  the  word  dis- 
graceful My  conduct  towards  that  young  lady  has  been 
honourable  throughout.' 

•And  what  about  your  conduct  towards  your  father?* 
asked  the  bishop. 

Gabriel  hung  his  head.  'I  intended  to  tell  you,'  he 
stammered,  'when — ' 

*  When  you  could  summon  up  course  to  do  so,'  inter- 
rupted Dr  Pendle,  in  cutting  tones.  '  Unfortunately,  your 
candour  was  not  equal  to  your  capability  for  deception,  so 
I  was  obliged  to  learn  the  truth  from  a  stranger.' 

*  Cargrim ! '  cried  Gabriel,  his  instinct  telling  him  the 
name  of  his  betrayer. 

*Yes,  from  Mr  Cargrim.  He  heard  the  truth  from  the 
lips  of  this  girl  herself.  She  informed  him  that  she  was 
engaged  to  marry  you — you,  my  son.' 

'It  is  true!'  said  Gabriel,  in  a  low  voice.  *I  wish  to 
make  her  my  wife.' 

'  Make  her  your  wife ! '  cried  Dr  Pendle,  angrily ;  •  this 
common  girl — this — this  barmaid — this — ' 

*  I  shall  not  listen  to  Bell  being  called  names  even  by 
you,  father,'  said  Gabriel,  proudly.  *  She  is  a  good  girl,  a 
respectable  girl — a  beautiful  girl ! ' 

N  193 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  And  a  barmaid,'  said  the  bishop,  dryly.  '  I  congratu- 
late you  on  the  daughter-in-law  you  liave  selected  for  your 
mother ! ' 

Gabriel  winced.  Much  as  he  loved  Bell,  the  idea  of  her 
being  in  the  society  of  his  delicate,  refined  mother  was  not 
a  pleasant  one.  He  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that 
although  the  jewel  he  wished  to  pick  out  of  the  gutter  might 
shine  brilliantly  there,  it  might  not  glitter  so  much  when 
translated  to  a  higher  sphere  and  placed  beside  more  polished 
gems.  Therefore,  he  could  find  no  answer  to  his  father's 
speech,  and  wisely  kept  silence. 

'Certainly,  my  sons  are  a  comfort  to  me !'  continued  the 
bishop,  sarcastically.  *  I  have  brought  them  up  in  what  I 
judged  to  be  a  wise  and  judicious  manner,  but  it  seems 
I  am  mistaken,  since  the  first  use  they  make  of  their 
training  is  to  deceive  the  father  who  has  never  deceived 
them.' 

'  I  admit  that  I  have  behaved  badly,  father.' 

'  No  one  can  deny  that,  sir.  The  question  is,  do  yotJ 
intend  to  continue  behaving  badly  ? ' 

'  I  love  Bell  dearly — very  dearly  ! ' 

The  bishop  groaned  and  sat  down  helplessly  in  his  chair. 
•It  is  incredible,'  he  said.  '  How  can  you,  with  your  refined 
tastes  and  up-bringing,  love  this — this — ?  Well,  I  shall  not 
call  her  names.  No  doubt  Miss  Mosk  is  well  enough  in 
her  way,  but  she  is  not  a  proper  wife  for  my  son.' 

'  Our  hearts  are  not  always  under  control,  father.' 

'  They  should  be,  Gabriel.  The  head  should  always  guide 
the  heart ;  that  is  only  common  sense.  Besides,  you  are  too 
young  to  know  your  own  mind.  This  girl  is  handsome  and 
scheming,  and  has  infatuated  you  in  your  innocence.  I 
should  be  a  bad  father  to  you  if  I  did  not  rescue  you  from 
her  wiles.  To  do  so,  it  is  my  intention  that  you  shall  go 
abroad  for  a  time.' 

*I  am  willing  to  go  abroad,  father,  but  I  shall  never, 
never  forget  Bell  ! ' 

'  You  speak  with  all  the  confidence  of  a  young  man  in 
love  for  the  first  time,  Gabriel.  I  am  glad  that  you  are  still 
sufficiently  obedient  to  obey  me.  Of  course,  you  know 
that  I  cannot  consent  to  your  making  this  girl  your  wife.' 

•  I  thought  that  you  might  be  angry,'  faltered  GabrieL 

194 


The  Bishop  Asserts  Himself 

*  I  am  more  hurt  than  angry,*  replied  the  bishop.  •  Have 
you  given  this  young  woman  a  promise  of  marriage  ? ' 

'  Yes,  father ;  I  gave  her  an  engagement  ring.' 

*I  congratulate  you,  sir,  on  your  methodical  behaviour. 
However,  it  is  no  use  arguing  with  one  so  infatuated  as  you 
are.  All  I  can  do  is  to  test  your  affection  by  parting  you 
from  Miss  Mosk.  When  you  return  from  Nauheim  we 
shall  speak  further  on  the  subject* 

'When  do  you  wish  me  to  go,  father?*  asked  Gabriel, 
rising  submissively. 

'To-morrow,'  said  the  bishop,  coldly.  *You  can  leave 
me  now.' 

'  I  am  sorry — * 

'Sorry! 'cried  Dr  Pendle,  with  a  frown.  *What  is  the 
use  of  words  without  deeds  ?  Both  you  and  George  have 
given  me  a  sore  heart  this  day.  I  thought  that  I  could 
trust  my  sons ;  I  find  that  I  cannot.  If —  But  it  is  useless 
to  talk  further.  I  shall  see  what  absence  can  do  in  both 
cases.     Now  leave  me,  if  you  please.' 

The  bishop  turned  to  his  desk  and  busied  himself  with 
some  papers,  while  Gabriel,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
left  the  room  with  a  deep  sigh.  Dr  Pendle,  finding  him- 
self alone,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  groaned  aloud. 

'  I  have  averted  the  danger  for  the  time  being,*  he  said 
sadly, '  but  the  future — ^ab,  me  1  what  of  the  future?' 


m 


CHAPTER    XXV 

MR    BALTIC,     MISSIONAET 

About  this  time  there  appeared  in  Beorminster  an  elderly, 
weather-beaten  man,  with  a  persuasive  tongue  and  the  quick, 
alert  eye  of  a  fowl.  He  looked  like  a  sailor,  and  as  such 
was  an  object  of  curiosity  to  inland  folk ;  but  he  cailed  him- 
self a  missionary,  saying  that  he  had  laboured  these  many 
years  in  the  Lord's  vineyard  of  the  South  Seas,  and  had 
returned  to  England  for  a  sight  of  white  faces  and  a  smack 
of  civilisation.  This  hybrid  individual  was  named  Ben 
Baltic,  and  had  the  hoarse  voice  of  a  mariner  accustomed 
to  out-roar  storms,  but  his  conversation  was  free  from  nautical 
oaths,  and  remarkably  entertaining  by  reason  of  his  adven- 
turous life.  He  could  not  be  said  to  be  obtrusively  religious, 
yet  he  gave  everyone  the  impression  of  being  a  good  and 
earnest  worker,  and  one  who  practised  what  he  preached, 
for  he  neither  smoked  nor  gambled  nor  drank  strong  waters. 
Yet  there  was  nothing  Pharisaic  about  his  speech  or  bearing. 
In  a  pilot  suit  of  rough  blue  cloth,  with  a  red  bandanna 
handkerchief  and  a  wide-brimmed  hat  of  Panama  straw,  Mr 
Baltic  took  up  his  residence  at  The  Derby  Winner,  and, 
rolling  about  Beorminster  in  the  true  style  of  Jack  ashore, 
speedily  made  friends  with  people  high  and  low.  The  low 
he  became  acquainted  with  on  his  own  account,  as  a  word 
and  a  smile  in  his  good-humoured  way  was  sufficient  to 
establish  at  least  a  temporary  friendship ;  but  he  owed  his 
familiarity  with  the  'high'  to  the  good  offices  of  Mr 
Cargrim.  That  gentleman  returned  from  his  holiday  with 
much  apparent  satisfaction,  and  declared  himself  greatly 
benefited  by  the  change.  Shortly  after  his  resumption  of 
his  duties,  he  received  a  visit  from  Baltic  the  missionary, 
who  presented  him  with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  a 
prominent  London  vicar.     From  this  epistle  the  chaplain 

196 


Mr  Baltic,  Missionary 

learned  that  Baltic  was  a  rough  diamond  with  a  gift  of  un- 
tutored eloquence,  that  he  desired  to  rest  for  a  week  or  two 
in  Beorminster,  and  that  any  little  attention  shown  to  him 
would  be  grateful  to  the  writer.  It  said  much  for  Mr  Car- 
grim's  goodwill  and  charity  that,  on  learning  all  this,  he  at 
once  opened  his  arms  and  heart  to  the  missionary-mariner. 
He  declared  his  willingness  to  make  Baltic's  stay  as  pleasant 
as  he  could,  but  was  shocked  to  learn  that  the  new-comer 
had  taken  up  his  abode  at  The  Derby  Winner.  His  feelings 
extended  even  so  far  as  remonstrance. 

'For,'  said  Cargrim,  shaking  his  head,  'I  assure  you,  Mr 
Baltic,  that  the  place  is  anything  but  respectable.* 

'  And  for  such  reason  I  stay  there,  sir.  If  you  want  to  do 
good  begin  with  the  worst;  that's  my  motto.  The 
Christian  heathen  can't  be  worse  than  the  Pagan  heathen,  I 
take  it,  Mr  Cargrim.' 

*  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,*  sighed  Cargrim. 
•Refined  vice  is  always  the  most  terrible.  Witness  the 
iniquities  of  Babylon  and  Rome.* 

'There  ain't  much  refinement  about  that  blackguard 
public,'  answered  the  missionary,  without  the  shadow  of  a 
smile,  '  and  if  I  can  stop  all  the  swearing  and  drinking  and 
shuffling  of  the  devil's  picture-books  which  goes  on  there, 
111  be  busy  at  the  Lord's  work,  I  reckon.' 

From  this  position  Baltic  refused  to  budge,  so  in  the  end 
Cargrim  left  off  trying  to  dissuade  him,  and  the  conversa- 
tion became  of  a  more  confidential  character  Evidently 
the  man's  qualities  were  not  over-praised  in  the  letter  of 
introduction,  for,  on  meeting  him  once  or  twice  and  know- 
ing him  better,  Cargrim  found  occasion  to  present  him  to 
the  bishop.  Baltic's  descriptions  of  his  South  Sea  labours 
fascinated  Dr  Pendle  by  their  colour  and  wildness,  and  he 
suggested  that  the  missionary  should  deliver  a  discourse  of 
the  same  quality  to  the  public.  A  hall  was  hired ;  the 
lecture  was  advertised  as  being  under  the  patronage  of  the 
bishop,  and  so  many  tickets  were  sold  that  the  building  was 
crowded  with  the  best  Beorminster  society,  led  by  Mrs 
Pansey.  The  missionary,  after  introducing  himself  as  a 
plain  and  unlettered  man,  launched  out  into  a  wonderfully 
vigorous  and  picturesque  description  of  those  Islands  of 
Paradise  which  bloom  like  gardens  amid  the  blue  waters 

197 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

of  the  Pacific  Ocean.  He  described  the  fecundity  and 
luxuriance  of  Nature,  drew  word-portraits  of  the  mild, 
brown-skinned  Polynesians,  wept  over  their  entliralnient  by 
a  debased  system  of  idolatry,  and  painted  the  blessings 
which  would  befall  them  when  converted  to  the  gentle 
religion  of  Christ  Baltic  had  the  gift  of  enchaining  his 
hearers,  and  the  audience  hung  upon  his  speech  with 
breathless  attention.  The  natural  genius  of  the  man 
poured  forth  in  burning  words  and  eloquent  apostrophes. 
The  subject  was  picturesque,  the  language  was  insi-iriting, 
the  man  a  born  orator,  and,  when  the  audience  dispersed, 
everyone,  from  the  bishop  downward,  agreed  that  Beor- 
minster  was  entertaining  an  untutored  Demosthenes.  Dr 
Pendle  sighed  as  he  thought  of  the  many  dull  sermons  he 
had  been  compelled  to  endure,  and  wondered  why  the 
majority  of  his  educated  clergy  should  fall  so  far  behind  the 
untaught,  unconsecrated,  rough-mannered  missionary. 

From  the  time  of  that  lecture,  Ben  Baltic,  for  all  his 
lowly  birth  and  uncouth  ways,  became  the  lion  of  Beor- 
minster.  He  was  invited  by  Mrs  Pansey  to  afternoon  tea ; 
he  was  in  request  at  garden-parties  ;  he  gave  lectures  in 
surrounding  parishes,  and,  on  the  whole,  created  an  un- 
deniable sensation  in  the  sober  cathedral  city.  Baltic 
observed  much  and  said  little ;  his  eyes  were  alert,  his 
tongue  was  discreet,  and,  even  when  borne  on  the  highest 
tide  of  popularity,  he  lost  none  of  his  modesty  and  good- 
humour.  He  still  continued  to  dwell  at  The  Derby 
Winner,  where  his  influence  was  salutary,  for  the  customers 
there  drank  less  and  swore  less  when  he  was  known  to  be 
present  Certainly,  such  reformation  did  not  please  Mr 
Mosk  over-much,  and  he  frequently  grumbled  that  it  was 
hard  a  man  should  have  his  trade  spoilt  by  a  psalm-singing 
missionary,  but  a  wholesome  fear  of  Cargrim's  threat  to 
inform  Sir  Harry  checked  him  from  asking  Baltic  to  leave. 
Moreover,  the  man  was  greatly  liked  by  Mrs  Mosk  on 
account  of  his  religious  spirit,  and  approved  of  by  Bell  from 
the  order  he  kept  in  the  hotel.  Therefore  Mosk,  being  in 
the  minority,  could  only  stand  on  one  side  and  grumble, 
which  he  did  with  true  English  zeal. 

It  was  while  Baltic  was  thus  exciting  Beorminster  that 
Sir  Harry  Brace  came  back.     Gabriel,  in  pursuance  of  his 

198 


Mr  BaltiCy  Missionary 

father's  wish,  had  gone  over  to  Nauheim  after  a  short  inter- 
view with  Bell,  in  which  he  had  told  her  of  his  father's 
opposition  to  the  match.  Bell  was  cast  down,  but  did  not 
despair,  as  she  thought  that  the  bishop  might  soften 
towards  Gabriel  during  his  absence ;  so  she  sent  him 
abroad  with  a  promise  that  she  would  remain  true  to  him 
until  he  returned.  When  the  curate  joined  Mrs  Pendle 
and  Lucy,  Sir  Harry,  with  much  regret,  had  to  relinquish 
his  pre-nuptial  honeymoon,  and  returned  to  Beorminster  in 
the  lowest  of  spirits.  The  bishop  did  not  tell  him  about 
Gabriel's  infatuation  for  Bell,  nor  did  he  explain  that 
George  had  engaged  himself  secretly  to  Mab  Arden,  so 
Harry  was  quite  in  the  dark  as  regards  the  domestic 
dissensions,  and,  ascribing  the  bishop's  gloom  to  the 
absence  of  his  family,  visited  him  frequently  in  order  to 
cheer  him  up.  But  the  dark  hour  was  on  Bishop  Pendle, 
and  notwithstanding  the  harping  of  this  David,  the  evil 
spirit  would  not  depart. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  the  bishop  ? '  asked  Harry  one 
evening  of  Cargrim.     *  He  is  as  glum  as  an  owl.' 

'  I  do  not  know  what  ails  him,*  replied  the  chaplain,  who, 
for  reasons  of  his  own,  was  resolved  to  hold  his  tongue, 
*  unless  it  is  that  he  has  been  working  too  hard  of  late.' 

'  It  isn't  that,  Cargrim  ;  all  the  years  I  have  known  him 
he  has  never  been  so  down-in-the-mouth  before.  I  fancy 
he  has  something  on  his  mind.' 

•  If  you  think  so.  Sir  Harry,  why  not  ask  him  ? ' 

Brace  shook  his  head.  '  That  would  never  do ! '  he 
answered.  '  The  bishop  doesn't  like  to  be  asked  questions. 
I  wish  I  could  see  him  livelier;  is  there  nothing  you  can 
suggest  to  cheer  him  up  ? ' 

'  Baltic  might  deliver  another  lecture  on  the  South  Seas ! ' 
said  Cargrim,  blandly.  '  His  lordship  was  pleased  with  the 
last  one.' 

'  Baltic ! '  repeated  Sir  Harry,  giving  a  meditative  twist  to 
his  black  moustache,  '  that  missionary  fellow.  I  was  going 
to  ask  you  something  about  him  ! ' 

Cargrim  looked  surprised  and  sUghtly  nervous.  '  Beyond 
that  he  is  a  missionary,  and  is  down  here  for  his  health's 
sake,  I  know  nothing  about  him,'  he  said  hastily. 

'You  introduced  him  to  the  bishop,  didn't  you?' 
199 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  Yes.  He  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  nie  from  the 
Vicar  of  St  Ann's  in  Kensington,  but  his  biography  was  not 
given  me.' 

'  He's  been  in  the  South  Seas,  hasn't  he?' 

•  I  believe  that  his  labours  lay  amongst  the  natives  of  the 
islands ! ' 

•  Well,  I  know  him  ! '  said  Brace,  with  a  nod. 
'You  know  him  ! '  repeated  the  chaplain,  anxiously. 

•  Yes.  Met  him  five  years  at^o  in  Samoa  ;  he  was  more  of 
a  beach-comber  than  a  missionary  in  those  days.  Ben 
Baltic  he  calls  himself,  doesn't  he  ?  I  thought  so  1  It's  the 
same  man.' 

'  He  is  a  very  worthy  person,  Sir  Harry  ! ' 

*So  you  say.  I  suppose  jicople  improve  when  they  get 
older,  but  he  wasn't  a  saint  when  I  knew  him.  He 
racketed  about  a  good  deal.  Humph!  perhaps  he  re- 
pented when  I  saved  his  life.' 

'  Did  you  save  his  life?' 

'Well,  yes.  Baltic  was  raising  Cain  in  some  drunken 
row  along  with  a  set  of  Kanakas,  and  one  of  'em  got  him 
under  to  slip  a  knife  into  him.  I  caught  the  nigger  a  clip 
on  the  jaw  and  sent  him  flying.  There  wasn  t  much  fight 
in  old  Ben  when  1  straightened  him  out  after  that.  So  he's 
turned  devil-dodger.  I  must  have  a  look  at  him  in  his  new 
capacity.' 

'Whatever  he  has  been,'  said  Cargrim,  who  appeared 
uneasy  during  the  recital  of  this  little  story,  '  I  am  sure  that 
he  has  repented  of  his  past  errors  and  is  now  quite  sincere 
in  his  religious  convictions.' 

'I'll  judge  of  that  for  myself,  if  you  don't  mind,'  drawled 
the  baronet,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  dark  eyes,  and  nodding 
to  Cargrim,  he  strolled  off,  leaving  that  gentleman  very  un- 
comfortable. Sir  Harry  saw  that  he  was  so,  and  wondered 
why  any  story  affecting  Baltic  should  render  the  chaplain 
uneasy.  He  received  an  explanation  some  days  later 
from  the  missionary  himself. 

Brace  possessed  a  handsome  family  seat,  embosomed  in  a 
leafy  park,  some  five  miles  from  the  city.  At  present  it  was 
undergoing  alterations  and  repairs,  so  that  it  might  be  a 
more  perfect  residence  when  the  future  I^dy  Brace  crossed 
its  tlireshold  as  a  bride.     Consequently  the  greater  part  of 


Mr  Baltic^  Missionary 

the  house  was  in  confusion,  and  given  over  to  painters, 
plasterers,  and  such-like  upsetting  people.  Harry,  however, 
had  decided  to  live  in  his  own  particular  rooms,  so  that 
he  might  see  that  everything  was  carried  out  in  accord- 
ance with  Lucy's  wish,  and  the  wing  he  inhabited  was  in 
fairly  good  order.  Still,  Sir  Harry  being  a  bachelor,  and 
extremely  untidy,  his  den,  as  he  called  it,  was  in  a  state  of 
pleasing  muddle,  which  oftentimes  drew  forth  rebukes  from 
Lucy.  She  was  resolved  to  train  her  Harry  into  better  ways 
when  she  had  the  wifely  right  to  correct  him,  but,  as  she 
frequently  remarked,  it  would  be  the  thirteenth  labour  of 
Hercules  to  cleanse  this  modem  Augean  stable. 

Harry  himself,  with  male  obstinacy,  always  asserted  that 
the  room  was  tidy  enough,  and  that  he  hated  to  live  in  a 
prim  apartment.  He  said  that  he  could  lay  his  hand  on 
anything  he  wanted,  and  that  the  seeming  confusion  was 
perfect  order  to  him.  Lucy  gave  up  arguing  on  these 
grounds,  but  privately  determined  that  when  the  honey- 
moon was  over  she  would  have  a  grand  'clarin  up'  time 
like  Dinah  in  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  In  the  meanwhile, 
Harry  continued  to  dwell  amongst  his  confused  household 
gods,  like  Marius  amid  the  ruins  of  Carthage. 

And  after  all,  the  'den,'  if  untidy,  was  a  very  pleasant 
apartment,  decorated  extensively  with  evidences  of  Harry's 
athletic  tastes.  There  were  boxing-gloves,  fencing-foils, 
dumb-bells,  and  other  aids  to  muscular  exertion;  silver 
cups  won  at  college  sports  were  ranged  on  the  mantelpiece  ; 
on  one  wall  hung  a  selection  of  savage  weapons  which 
Harry  had  brought  from  Africa  and  the  South  Seas;  on 
the  other,  a  hunting  trophy  of  whip,  spurs,  cap  and  fox's 
brush  was  arranged ;  and  pictures  of  celebrated  horses  and 
famous  jockeys  were  placed  here,  there  and  everywhere. 
The  writing-table,  pushed  up  close  to  the  window,  was 
littered  with  papers,  and  letters  and  plans,  and  before  this 
Harry  was  seated  one  morning  writing  a  letter  to  Lucy, 
when  the  servant  informed  him  that  Mr  Baltic  was  waiting 
without.  Harry  gave  orders  for  his  instant  admittance,  as 
he  was  curious  to  see  again  the  sinner  turned  saint,  and 
anxious  to  learn  what  tide  from  the  far  South  Seas  had 
stranded  him  in  respectable,  unromantic  Beorminster. 

When  the  visitor  entered  with  his  burly  figure  and  bright, 

14  20I 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

observant  eyes,  Harry  gave  him  a  friendly  nod,  but  know- 
ing  more  about  Baltic  tlian  the  rest  of  L'eorminster,  did  not 
offer  him  his  hand.  From  his  height  of  six  feet,  he  looked 
down  on  the  thick-set  little  missionary,  and  telling  him  to  be 
seated,  made  him  welcome  in  a  sufficiently  genial  fashion, 
nevertheless  with  a  certain  reserve.  He  was  not  quite 
certain  if  Baltic's  conversion  was  genuine,  and  if  he  found 
proof  of  hypocrisy,  was  prepared  to  fall  foul  of  him  forth- 
with. Sir  Harry  was  not  particularly  religious,  but  he  was 
honest,  and  hated  cant  with  all  his  soul. 

•Well,  Ben!'  said  he,  looking  sharply  at  his  visitor's 
solemn  red  face,  '  who  would  have  thought  of  seeing  you  in 
these  latitudes?' 

•We  never  know  what  is  before  us,  sir,'  replied  Baltic, 
in  his  deep,  rough  voice.  'It  was  no  more  in  my  mind 
that  I  should  meet  you  under  your  own  fig-tree  than  it  was 
that  I  should  receive  a  call  through  you  ! ' 

'  Receive  a  call,  man !  What  do  you  mean  ? '  asked 
Harry,  negligently.     'By  the  way,  will  you  have  a  cigar?' 

*No  thank  you,  sir.     I  don't  smoke  now.' 

*  A  whisky  and  soda,  then  ? ' 

*  I  have  given  up  strong  waters,  sir.* 

•Here  is  repentance  indeed!'  observed  the  baronet, 
with  some  sarcasm.  •  You  have  changed  since  the  Samoan 
days,  Baltic ! ' 

•Thanks  be  to  Christ,  sir,  I  have,'  said  the  man,  rever- 
ently, 'and  my  caU  was  through  you,  sir.  When  you  saved 
my  Ufe  I  resolved  to  lead  a  new  one,  and  I  sought  out  Mr 
Eva,  the  missionary,  who  gave  me  hope  of  being  a  belter 
man.  I  listened  to  his  preaching.  Sir  Harry,  I  read  the 
Gospels,  I  wrestled  with  my  sinful  self,  and  after  a  long 
fight  I  was  made  strong.  My  doubts  were  set  at  rest,  my 
sins  were  washed  in  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb,  and  since  He 
took  me  into  His  holy  keeping,  I  have  striven  to  be 
worthy  of  His  great  love.' 

Baltic  spoke  so  simply,  and  with  such  nobility,  that 
Brace  could  not  but  believe  that  he  was  in  earnest.  There 
was  no  spurious  affectation,  no  cant  about  the  man ;  his 
words  were  grave,  his  manner  was  earnest,  and  his  speech 
came  from  the  fulness  of  his  heart.  If  there  had  been  a 
false  note,  a  false  look,  Harry  would  have  detected  both, 

202 


Mr  Baltic,  Missionary 

and  great  would  have  been  his  disgust  and  wrath.  But  the 
dignity  of  the  speech,  the  simplicity  of  the  description, 
impressed  him  with  a  belief  that  Baltic  was  speaking  truly. 
The  man  was  a  rough  sailor,  and  therefore  not  cunning 
enough  to  feign  an  emotion  he  did  not  feel,  so,  almost 
against  his  will,  Brace  was  obliged  to  believe  that  he  saw 
before  him  a  Saul  converted  into  a  Paul.  The  change  of 
Pagan  Ben  into  Christian  Baltic  was  little  else  than 
miraculous. 

'And  are  you  now  a  missionary?'  said  Brace,  after  a 
reflective  pause, 

'No,  Sir  Harry,*  answered  the  man,  calmly,  and  with 
dignity,  ♦  I  am  a  private  inquiry  agent  I ' 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE   AMAZEMENT  or   SIR   HARRY   BRACB 

*A  PRIVATE  inquiry  agent!*  Sir  Hairy  jumped  up  from 
his  chair  with  an  angry  look,  and  a  sharp  ejaculation,  neither 
of  which  disturbed  his  visitor.  With  his  red  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief spread  on  his  knees,  and  his  straw  hat  resting  on 
the  handkerchief,  Baltic  looked  at  his  flushed  host  calmly 
and  solemnly  without  moving  a  muscle,  or  even  winking  an 
eye.  Brace  did  not  know  whether  to  treat  the  ex-sailor  as 
a  madman  or  as  an  impudent  impostor.  The  situation  was 
almost  embarrassing. 

'  What  do  you  mean,  sir,'  he  asked  angrily,  '  by  coming 
to  me  with  a  cock-and-bull  story  about  your  conversion, 
and  then  telling  me  that  you  are  a  private  inquiry  agent, 
which  is  little  less  than  a  spy  ?' 

*  Is  it  impossible  for  such  a  one  to  be  a  Christian,  Sir 
Harry  ?  ' 

'  I  should  think  so.  One  who  earns  his  living  by  sneaking 
can  scarcely  act  up  to  the  ethics  of  the  Gospels.' 

'  I  don't  earn  my  living  by  sneaking,'  replied  Baltic,  coolly. 
•  If  I  did,  I  shouldn't  explain  my  business  to  you  as  I  have 
done — as  I  am  doing.  My  work  is  honourable  enough,  sir, 
for  I  am  ranged  against  evil-doers,  and  it  is  my  duty  to 
bring  their  works  to  naught.  There  is  no  need  for  me  to 
defend  my  profession  to  anyone  but  you,  Sir  Harry,  as  no 
one  but  yourself,  and  perhaps  two  other  people,  know  what 
I  really  am.' 

'  They  shall  know  it,'  spoke  Sir  Harry,  hastily.  *  All 
Beorminster  shall  know  of  it  We  don't  care  for  wolves 
in  sheep's  clothing  here.' 

'  Better  be  sure  that  I  am  a  wolf  before  you  talk  rashly,' 
said  Baltic,  in  no  wise  disturbed.  '  I  came  here  to  speak 
to  you  openly,  because  you  saved  my  life,  and  that  deb<  I 

104 


The  Amazement  of  Sir  Harry  Brace 

wish  to  square.  And  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  it  isn't 
Christianity,  or  even  justice,  to  hear  one  side  of  the  ques- 
tion and  not  the  other.' 

Harry  looked  puzzled.  *You  are  an  enigma  to  me, 
Baltic' 

•  I  am  here  to  explain  myself,  sir.  As  your  hand  dashed 
aside  the  knife  of  that  Kanaka  you  have  a  claim  on  my 
confidence.  You'll  be  a  sad  man  and  a  glad  man  when 
you  hear  my  story,  sir.' 

Harry  resumed  his  seat,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  took 
a  leisurely  look  at  his  self-possessed  visitor.  '  Sad  and  glad 
are  contradictory  terms,  my  friend,'  said  he,  carelessly.  *  I 
would  rather  you  explained  riddles  than  propounded  them.' 

'  Sir  Harry  I  Sir  Harry !  it  is  the  riddle  of  man's  life  upon 
this  earth  that  I  am  trying  to  explain.' 

*  You  have  set  yourself  a  hard  task,  Baltic,  for  so  far  as  I 
can  see,  there  is  no  reading  of  that  riddle.' 

'Save  by  the  light  of  the  Gospel,  sir,  which  makes  all 
things  plain.' 

•Baltic,'  said  Brace,  bluntly,  'there  is  that  about  you 
which  would  make  me  sorry  to  find  you  a  Pharisee 
or  a  hypocrite.  Therefore,  if  you  please,  we  will  stop 
religion  and  allegory,  and  come  to  plain  matter-of-facL 
When  I  knew  you  in  Samoa,  you  were  a  sailor  without  a 
ship.' 

'  Add  a  castaway  and  a  child  of  the  devil,  sir,  and  you 
will  describe  me  as  I  was  then,'  burst  out  Baltic,  in  his 
deep  voice.  '  Hear  me,  Sir  Harry,  and  gauge  me  as  I 
should  be  gauged.  I  was,  as  you  know,  a  drunken,  god- 
less, swearing  dog,  in  the  grip  of  Satan  as  fuel  for  hell; 
but  when  you  saved  my  worthless  life  I  saw  that  it  behoved 
me,  as  it  does  all  men,  to  repent.  I  sought  out  a  missionary, 
who  heard  my  story  and  set  my  feet  in  the  right  path.  I 
Ustened  to  his  preaching,  I  read  the  Good  Book,  and  so 
learned  how  I  could  be  saved.  The  missionary  made  me 
his  fellow-labourer  in  the  islands,  and  I  strove  to  bring  the 
poor  heathen  to  the  foot  of  the  cross.  For  three  years  I 
laboured  there,  until  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  I  was 
called  upon  by  the  Spirit  to  labour  in  the  greater  vineyard 
of  London.  Therefore,  I  came  to  England  and  looked 
round  to  see  what   task  was  fittest  for  my  hand.      On 

205 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

every  side  I  saw  evil  prosper.  The  wicked,  as  I  noted, 
flourished  like  a  green  bay  tree;  so,  to  bring  them  to 
repentance  and  punishment,  I  became  a  private  inquiry 
agent' 

'  Humph !  that  is  a  novel  kind  of  missionary  enterprise, 
Baltic' 

'  It  is  a  righteous  one.  Sir  Harry.  I  search  out  iniquities ; 
I  snare  the  wicked  man  in  his  own  nets ;  I  make  void  the 
devices  of  his  evil  heart.  If  I  cannot  prevent  crimes,  I  can 
at  least  punish  them  by  bringing  their  doers  within  the 
grip  of  the  law.  Then  when  punished  by  man,  they  re- 
pent and  turn  to  God,  and  thereby  are  saved  through  their 
own  lusts.' 

*  Not  in  many  cases,  I  am  afraid.  So  you  regard  your- 
self as  a  kind  of  scourge  for  the  wicked  ? ' 

*  Yes !  When  I  state  that  I  am  a  missionary,  I  regard 
myself  as  one  who  works  in  a  new  way.' 

*  A  kind  oi fin-de-sihU  apostle,  in  fact,'  said  Brace,  dryly. 
'But  isn't  the  term  "  missionary  "  rather  a  misnomer?' 

*  No ! '  replied  Baltic,  earnestly,  'I  do  my  work  in  a 
different  way,  that  is  alL  I  baffle  the  wicked,  and  by 
showing  them  the  futility  of  sin,  induce  them  to  lead  a 
new  life.  I  make  them  fall,  only  to  aid  them  to  rise ;  for 
when  all  is  lost,  their  hearts  soften.' 

*  You  give  them  a  kind  of  Hobson's  choice,  I  see,'  com- 
mented Sir  Harry,  who  was  puzzled  by  the  man's  concep- 
tion of  his  work,  but  saw  that  he  spoke  in  all  seriousness. 
•Well,  Baltic,  it  is  a  queer  way  of  calling  sinners  to  r©" 
pentance,  and  I  can't  understand  it  myself.' 

*  My  method  of  conversion  is  certainly  open  to  mis- 
construction, sir.  That  is  why  I  term  myself  rather  a 
missionary  than  a  private  inquiry  agent.' 

'  I  see  J  you  don't  wish  to  scare  your  promising  flock  of 
criminals.  Does  ainyone  here  know  that  you  are  a  private 
inquiry  agent  ? ' 

'  Mr  Cargrim  does,'  said  the  ex-sailor,  calmly,  •  and  one 
other.' 

Harry  leaned  forward  with  an  incredulous  look.  '  Car- 
grim  knows,'  he  said  in  utter  amazement.  *  I  should  think 
he  would  be  the  last  man  to  approve  of  your  ideas,  with  his 
narrow  views  and  clerical  red-tapisra.' 

206 


The  Amazement  of  Sir  Harry  Brace 

*  Perhaps  so,  sir ;  but  in  this  case  my  views  happen  to  falJ 
in  with  his  own.  I  came  to  see  you,  Sir  Harry,  in  order  tJ5 
ease  my  mind  on  that  point.' 

*  In  order  to  ease  your  mind ! '  repeated  Brace,  with  a 
keen  look.     '  Go  on.' 

'Sir  Harry,  I  speak  to  you  in  confidence  about  Mr 
Cargrim.     I  do  not  like  that  man,  sir.' 

'You  belong  to  the  majority,  then,  Baltic.  Few 
people  like  Cargrim,  or  trust  him.  But  what  is  he  to 
you  ? ' 

*  My  employer.  Yes,  sir,  you  may  well  look  astonished, 
Mr  Cargrim  asked  me  down  to  Beorminster  for  a  certain 
purpose.' 

*  Connected  with  his  self-aggrandisement,  no  doubt.' 

*  That  I  cannot  tell  you,  Sir  Harry,  as  Mr  Cargrim  has 
not  told  me  his  motive  for  engaging  me  in  my  business 
capacity.  All  I  know  is  that  he  wishes  me  to  discover  who 
killed  a  man  called  Jentham.' 

'  The  deuce ! '  Harry  jumped  up  with  an  excited  look. 
*  Why  is  he  taking  the  trouble  to  do  that?  ' 

'  I  can't  say,  sir,  unless  it  is  that  he  dislikes  Bishop 
Pendle ! ' 

'  Dislikes  Bishop  Pendle,  man  !  And  what  has  all  this  to 
do  with  the  murder  of  Jentham  ?  ' 

'  Sir,'  said  Baltic,  with  a  cautious  glance  around,  and 
sinking  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  '  Mr  Cargrim  suspects  Dr 
Pendle  of  the  crime.' 

'  What ! ! ! '  Sir  Harry  turned  the  colour  of  chalk,  and 
sprang  back  until  he  almost  touched  the  wall.  'You 
hound!'  said  he,  speaking  with  unnatural  calmness,  'do 
you  dare  to  sit  there  and  tell  me  that  you  have  cooie  here 
to  watch  the  bishop  ? ' 

'Yes,  Sir  Harry,' was  Baltic's  stolid  rejoinder,  'and  call- 
ing me  names  won't  do  away  with  the  fact.' 

'  Does  Cargrim  believe  that  the  bishop  killed  this 
man?' 

'  Yes,  sir,  he  does,  and  wishes  me  to  bring  the  crime  home 
to  him.' 

'  Curse  you  ! '  roared  Harry,  striding  across  the  room,  and 
towering  over  the  unmoved  Baltic,  '  I'll  wring  your  neck, 
sir,  if  you  dare  to  hint  at  such  a  thing.' 

207 


The  Bishop' s  Secret 

•I  nrn  merely  stating  facts,  Sir  Harry — facts,' he  added 
pointedly,  '  wl)icli  I  wish  you  to  know.' 

*  For  wliat  [)urposi.'.' 
'That  you  may  assist  me.* 

'  To  hunt  down  the  bishop,  I  suppose,'  said  Sir  Harry, 
quivering  with  rage. 

*  No,  sir,  to  save  the  bishop  from  Mr  Cargrim.' 

*  Then  you  do  not  believe  that  the  bishop  is  guilty.' 

'  Sir,'  said  Baltic,  with  dignity,  '  in  London  and  in  Beor- 
minster  I  have  collected  certain  evidence  which,  on  the 
face  of  it,  incriminates  the  bishop.  But  since  knowing 
Dr  Pendle  I  have  been  observant  of  his  looks  and  de- 
meanour, and — after  much  thought — I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  is  innocent  of  this  crime  which  Mr 
Cargrim  lays  to  his  charge.  It  is  because  of  this  belief  that 
I  tell  you  my  mind  and  seek  your  assistance.  We  must 
work  together,  sir,  and  discover  the  real  criminal  so  as  to 
baffle  Mr  Cargrim.' 

•Cargrim,  Cargrim,'  repeated  Brace,  angrily,  'he  is  a  bad  lot.' 

*  That  is  what  I  say.  Sir  Harry.  He  is  one  who  spreads 
a  snare,  and  I  wish  him  to  be  taken  in  it  himself.' 

*  Yet  Cargim  is  your  employer,  and  pays  you,'  sneered 
Sir  Harry. 

'  You  are  wrong,'  replied  Baltic,  quietly.  *  I  do  not  take 
payment  for  my  work.' 

'  How  do  you  live  then  ?  You  were  not  independent 
when  I  knew  you.' 

'That  is  true,  Sir  Harry,  but  when  I  arrived  in  England 
I  found  that  my  father  was  dead,  and  had  left  me  sufficient 
to  live  upon.  Therefore  I  take  no  fee  for  my  work,  but 
labour  to  punish  the  wicked,  for  religion's  sake.' 

Brace  muttered  something  about  the  heat,  and  wiped 
his  forehead  as  he  resumed  his  seat.  The  peculiar  views 
held  by  Baltic  perplexed  him  greatly,  and  he  could  not 
reconcile  the  man's  desire  to  capture  criminals  with  his 
belief  in  a  religion,  the  keynote  ot  which  is,  '  God  is  love.' 
Evidently  Baltic  wished  to  convert  sinners  by  playing  on 
their  fears  rather  than  by  appealing  to  their  religious  feel- 
ings, although  it  was  certainly  true  that  those  rascals  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal  probably  liad  no  elements  of  belief 
whatsoever  in  their  seared  minds. 

208 


The  Amaze^nent  of  Sir  Harry  Brace 

But  be  this  as  it  may,  Baltic's  mission  was  both  novel 
and  strange,  and  might  in  some  degree  prove  successful 
from  its  very  originality.  Torquemada  burned  bodies  to 
save  souls,  but  this  man  exposed  vices,  so  that  those  who 
committed  them,  being  banned  by  the  law,  and  made  out- 
casts from  civihsation,  should  find  no  friend  but  the  Deity. 
Harry  was  not  clever  enough  to  understand  the  ethics  of 
this  conception,  therefore  he  abandoned  any  attempt  to  do 
so,  and  treating  Baltic  purely  as  an  ordinary  detective, 
addressed  himself  to  the  task  of  arriving  at  the  evidence 
which  was  said  to  inculpate  Dr  Pendle  in  the  murder  of 
Jentham.  The  ex-sailor  accepted  the  common  ground  of 
argument,  and  in  his  turn  abandoned  theology  for  the 
business  of  everyday  life.  Common  sense  was  needed  to 
expose  and  abase  and  overturn  those  criminals  whose 
talents  enabled  them,  to  conceal  their  wickedness  ;  pro- 
selytism  could  follow  in  due  course.  There  was  the  germ 
of  a  new  sect  in  Baltic's  conception  of  Christianity  as  a 
terrorising  religion. 

*Let  me  hear  your  evidence  against  the  bishop,'  said 
Sir  Harry,  calm  and  business-like. 

Baltic  complied  with  this  request  and  gave  the  outlines 
of  the  case  in  barren  detail.  'Sir,'  said  he,  gravely,  '  some 
weeks  ago,  while  there  was  a  reception  at  the  palace,  this 
man  Jentham  called  to  see  the  bishop  and  evidently 
attempted  to  blackmail  him  on  account  of  some  secret. 
Afterwards  Jentham,  not  being  able  to  pay  for  his  board  and 
lodging  at  The  Derby  Winner,  promised  Mosk,  the  land- 
lord, that  he  would  discharge  his  bill  shortly,  as  he  ex- 
pected the  next  week  to  receive  much  money.  From  whom 
he  did  not  say,  but  while  drunk  he  boasted  that  SoutTiberry 
Heath  was  Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  on  which  he  could  pick 
up  gold  and  silver.  In  the  meantime,  Bishop  Pendle  went 
up  to  London  and  drew  out  of  the  Ophir  Bank  a  sum  of 
two  hundred  pounds,  in  twenty  ten-pound  notes.  With 
this  money  he  returned  to  Beorminster  and  kept  an  ap- 
pointment, on  the  common,  with  Jentham,  when  returning 
on  Sunday  night  from  Southberry.  Whether  he  paid  him 
the  blackmail  I  cannot  say ;  whether  he  killed  the  man 
no  one  can  declare  honestly ;  but  it  is  undoubtedly  true 
that,  the  next  morning,  Jentham,  whom  the  bishop  regarded 
O  209 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

as  his  enemy,  was  found  dead.  These,  sir,  are  the  bare 
facts  of  the  case,  and,  as  you  can  sc;,  they  ccrUmly  appear 
to  inculpate  Dr  Pendle  in  the  crime.' 

This  calm  and  pitiless  statement  clvHed  Sir  Harry's 
blood.  Although  he  could  not  brinj;  himself  to  believe 
that  the  bishop  was  guilty,  yet  he  saw  plainly  i.nough 
that  the  evidence  tended,  almost  beyond  all  doub',  to  in- 
criminate the  prelate.  Yet  there  might  be  flaws  even  in  so 
complete  an  indictment,  and  Harry,  seeking  for  tliem,  bcgaa 
eagerly  to  question  Baltic 

'Who  told  you  all  this  ?'  he  demanded  with  some  appre- 
hension. 

•  Mr  Cargrim  told  me  some  parts,  and  I  found  out 
others  for  myself,  sir.' 

'  Does  Cargrim  know  the  nature  of  Dr  Pendle's  secret?' 
'Not  that  I  know  of,  Sir  Harry.' 
'  Is  he  certain  that  there  is  one  ?  * 

•  Quite  certain,'  replied  Baltic,  emphatically;  'if  only  on 
account  of  Jentham's  boast  about  being  able  to  get  money, 
and  the  fact  that  Bishop  Pendle  went  up  to  London  to  pro- 
cure the  blackmail.' 

'  How  does  he  know — how  does  artyone  know  that  the 
bishop  did  so? ' 

•Because  a  butt  was  torn  out  of  Dr  Pendle's  London 
cheque-book,'  s.:id  Baltic,  '  and  I  made  inquiries  at  the 
Ophir  Bank,  which  resulted  in  my  discovery  that  a  cheque 
for  two  hundred  had  been  drawn  on  the  day  the  bishop 
was  in  town.' 

'  Come  now,  Baltic,  it  is  not  likely  that  any  bank 
would  give  you  thnt  information  without  a  warrant ;  but  I 
don't  sui'pose  you  dared  to  procure  one  again-.t  his  lordship.' 

•Sir,'  s..id  Baltic,  rolling  up  his  red  handkerchief,  '1  had 
not  sufficient  evidence  to  procure  a  warrant,  also  I  am  not 
in  the  service  of  the  Government,  nevertheless,  I  have  my 
own  ways  of  procuring  information,  which  I  decline  to 
explain.  These  served  me  so  well  in  this  instance  that  I 
know  Bishop  Pendle  drew  a  cheque  for  two  hundred 
j>ounds,  and  moreover,  I  have  the  numbers  ot  the  notes. 
If  the  money  was  paid  to  Jentham,  and  afterwards  was  taken 
from  his  dead  body  by  the  assassin,  I  hi;pe  to  trace  these 
notes ;  in  which  case  I  may  capture  the  murderer.' 

210 


The  Amazement  of  Sir  Ha^'ry  Brace 

•  In  your  character  of  a  private  inquiry  agent  ?  * 

•  No,  Sir  Harry,  I  cannot  take  that  much  upon  myself.  I 
mentioned  that  one  other  person  knew  of  my  profession ; 
that  person  is  Inspector  Tinkler.' 

'  Man  ! '  cried  Brace,  with  a  start,  '  you  have  not  dared  to 
accuse  the  bishop  to  Tinkler ! ' 

*  Oh,  no,  sir  ! '  rejoined  the  ex-sailor,  composedly.  '  Al!  I 
have  done  is  to  tell  Tinkler  that  I  wish  to  hunt  down  the 
murderer  of  Jentham,  and  to  induce  him  to  obtain  for  me 
a  warrant  of  arrest  against  Mother  Jael.' 

'Mother  Jael,  the  gipsy  hag!  You  don't  suspect  her, 
surely ! ' 

'  Not  of  the  murder  \  but  I  suspect  her  of  knowing  the 
truth.  Tinkler  got  me  a  warrant  on  the  ground  of  her 
being  concerned  in  the  crime — say,  as  an  accessory  after 
the  fact.  To-morrow,  Sir  Harry,  I  ride  over  to  the  gipsy 
camp,  and  then  with  this  warrant  I  intend  to  frighten 
Mother  Jael  into  confessing  what  she  knows.' 

Harry  smiled  grimly.  '  If  you  get  the  truth  out  of  her 
you  will  be  a  clever  man,  Baltic.  Does  the  bishop  know 
that  you  suspect  him?' 

•I  don't  suspect  him,  sir,'  rephed  Baltic,  rising,  'and 
the  bishop  knows  nothing,  as  he  believes  that  I  am  a 
missionary.' 

'  Well,  you  are,  in  your  own  peculiar  way.' 

'  Thank  you,  Sir  Harry.  Only  you  and  Mr  Cargrim  and 
Mr  Tinkler  are  aware  of  the  truih,  and  I  tell  you  all  this, 
sir,  as  I  neither  approve  of,  nor  believe  in,  Mr  Cargrim. 
I  am  certain  that  Dr  Pendle  is  innocent;  Mr  Cargrim  is 
equally  certain  that  he  is  guilty ;  so  I  am  working  to  prove 
the  truth,  and  that,'  concluded  the  solemn  Baltic,  'will  not 
be  what  Mr  Cargrim  desires.' 

'  Good  God  !  the  man  must  hate  the  bishop.* 

'Bating  your  taking  the  name  of  God  in  vain,  sir,  I 
believe  he  does.* 

*  Well,  Ealtic,  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  confi- 
dence, and. feel  thankful  that  you  are  on  our  side.  You 
can  command  my  services  in  any  way  you  like,  but  keep 
me  posted  up  in  all  you  do.' 

'Sir!'  said  Baltic,  gravely,  shaking  hands  with  his  host, 
*you  can  look  upon  me  as  your  friend  and  well-wisher.' 

211 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

WHAI-     MOTHER     JAEL     KNEW 

Xow,  when  Baltic  and  his  grizzled  head  had  vanished,  Sir 
Harry  mii^-t  needs  betake  himself  to  Dr  Graham  for  the 
easing  of  his  mind.  The  doctor  had  known  the  young  man 
since  he  was  a  little  lad,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion 
had  given  him  that  practical  kind  of  advice  which  results 
from  experience ;  therefore,  when  Harry  was  perplexed 
over  matters  too  deep  for  him — as  he  was  now — he  invari- 
ably sought  counsel  of  his  old  friend.  In  the  present 
instance — -for  his  own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  Lucy  and  Lucy's 
father — he  told  Graham  the  whole  story  of  Llishop  Pendle's 
presumed  guilt ;  of  Baltic's  mission  to  disprove  it ;  and  of 
Cargrim's  underhanded  doings.  Graham  listened  to  the 
details  in  silence,  and  contented  himself  with  a  grim  smile 
or  two  when  Cargrim's  treachery  was  touched  upon. 
When  in  possession  of  the  facts,  he  commented  firstly  on 
the  behaviour  of  the  chaplain. 

'  I  always  thought  that  the  fellow  was  a  cur !  *  said  he, 
contemptuously,  'and  now  I  am  certain  of  it.' 

'Curs  bite,  sir,'  said  Brace,  sententiously,  'and  we  must 
muzzle  this  one  else  there  will  be  the  devil  to  pay.' 

'No  doubt,  when  Cargrim  receives  his  wages.  Well,  lad, 
and  what  do  you  propose  doing?' 

•  I  came  to  ask  your  advice,  doctor ! ' 

'  Here  it  is,  then.     Hold  your  tongue  and  do  nothing.* 

•  What !  and  leave  that  hound  to  plot  against  the  bishop  ? ' 
'A   cleverer   head   than  yours   is   counter-plotting   him, 

Brace,'  warned  the  doctor.  'While  Cargrim,  having  faith  in 
Baltic,  leaves  the  matter  of  the  murder  in  his  hands,  there 
can  be  no  open  scandal.' 

Harry  stared,  and  moodily  tugged  at  his  moustache.  'I 
never  thou-ht  to  hear  you  hint  that  the  bishop  was  guilty/ 
he  grumbled. 

3ia 


What  Mother  Jae I  knew 

'  And  I,'  retorted  Graham,  '  never  thought  to  hear  a  man 
of  your  sense  make  so  silly  a  speech.  The  bishop  is 
innocent;  I'll  stake  my  life  on  that.  Nevertheless, 
he  has  a  secret,  and  if  there  is  a  scandal  about  this 
murder,  the  secret — whatever  it  is — may  become  public 
property.' 

•  Humph !  that  is  to  be  avoided  certainly.  But  the 
secret  can  be  nothing  harmful.' 

*If  it  were  not,'  replied  Graham,  drily,  'Pendle  would 
not  take  such  pains  to  conceal  it.  People  don't  pay  two 
hundred  pounds  for  nothing  harmful,  my  lad.' 

•  Do  you  believe  that  the  money  was  paid  ?  * 

'Yes,  on  Southberry  Heath,  shortly  before  the  murder. 
And  what  is  more,'  added  Graham,  warmly,  '  I  believe  that 
the  assassin  knew  that  Jentham  had  received  the  money, 
and  shot  him  to  obtain  it.' 

'  If  that  is  so,'  argued  Harry,  '  the  assassin  would  no 
doubt  wish  to  take  the  benefit  of  his  crime  and  use  the 
money.  If  he  did,  the  numbers  of  the  notes  being  known, 
«hey  would  be  traced,  whereas — ' 

'  Whereas  Baltic,  who  got  the  numbers  from  the  bank,  has 
not  yet  had  time  to  trace  them.  Wait,  Brace,  wait !  Time, 
in  this  matter,  may  work  wonders.' 

'But,  doctor,  do  you  trust  Baltic?' 

*Ves,  my  friend,  I  always  trust  fanatics  in  their  own 
particular  line  of  monomania.  Besides,  for  all  his  religious 
craze,  Baltic  appears  to  be  n  shrewd  man ;  also  he  is  a 
silent  one,  so  if  anyone  can  carry  the  matter  through 
judiciously,  he  is  the  person.' 

•  What  about  Cargrim  ? ' 

•  Leave  him  alone,  lad  ;  with  sufficient  rope  he'll  surely 
hang  himself.' 

^Shouldn't  the  bishop  be  warned,  doctor?' 

'I  think  not.  If  we  watch  Cargrim  and  trust  Baltic  we 
shall  be  able  to  protect  Pendle  from  the  consequences  of 
his  folly.' 

'Folly!     What  folly?' 

'The  folly  of  having  a  secret.  Only  women  should  have 
secrets,  for  they  alone  know  how  to  keep  them.' 

'  Everyone  is  of  the  opposite  opinion,'  said  Brace,  with  a 
grin. 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

•And,  as  usual,  everyone  is  wrong,'  retorted  Graham. 
*  Do  you  think  I  have  been  a  d^)Ctor  all  these  years  and 
don't  know  the  sex? — that  is,  so  far  as  a  man  may  know 
them.  You  take  my  word  for  it,  Brace,  that  a  woman 
knows  how  to  hold  her  tongue.  It  is  a  popular  fallacy  to 
suppose  that  she  doesn't.  You  try  and  get  a  secret  out  of 
a  woman  which  she  thinks  is  worth-  keeping,  and  sec  how 
you'll  fare.  She  will  laugh,  and  talk  and  lie,  and  tell  you 
everytliing — except  what  you  want  to  know.  What  strength 
is  to  a  man,  cunninc;  is  to  a  woman.  Tiiey  are  thj  potters, 
we  are  the  clay,  and — and — and  my  discourse  is  as  dis- 
cursive as  that  of  Praed's  vicar,'  finished  the  doctor,  with  a 
dry  chuckle. 

'  It  has  led  us  a  long  way  from  the  main  point,'  agreed 
Harry,  'and  that  is— what  is  Dr  Pendle's  secret?' 

Graham  shook  his  head  and  shru.gcd  his  shoulders. 
•You  ask  more  than  I  can  tell  you,'  he  said  sadly.  'What- 
ever it  is,  Pendle  intends  to  keep  it  to  himself.  All  we  can 
do  is  to  trust  Baltic' 

'Well,  doctor,'  said  Harry,  taking  a  reluctant  leave,  for 
he  wished  to  thresh  out  the  matier  into  absolute  ciiaff, 
'you  know  best,  so  I  shall  follow  your  advice.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  that,'  was  Graham's  reply.  '  My  time  is 
too  valuable  to  be  wasted.' 

While  this  conversation  was  taking  place,  Baltic  was 
walking  briskly  across  the  brown  heath,  in  the  full  blaze  of 
the  noonday.  A  merciless  sun  flamed  like  a  furnace  in 
the  cloudless  sky ;  and  over  the  vast  expanse  o.'"  dry  burnt 
herbage  lay  a  veil  of  misty,  tremulous  heat.  Every  pool  of 
water  flashed  like  a  mirror  in  the  sun-rays  ;  the  drone  of 
myriad  insects  rose  from  the  ground  ;  the  hik's  clear  music 
rained  down  from  the  sky ;  and  the  ex-sailor,  trudging  along 
the  white  and  dusty  highway,  almost  persuaded  himself  that 
he  was  back  in  some  tropical  land,  less  gorgeous,  but  quite 
as  sultry,  as  the  one  he  had  left.  The  day  was  fitter  for 
mid  June  rather  than  late  September. 

Baltic  made  so  much  concession  to  the  unusual  weather 
as  to  drape  his  red  handkerchief  over  his  head  and  place  his 
Panama  hat  on  top  of  it;  but  he  still  wore  the  thick  pilot 
suit,  buttoned  up  tightly,  and  stepped  out  smartly,  as  though 
he  were  a  salamander  impervious  to  heat.     With  his  long 


What  Mother  J ael  knew 

arms  swinging  by  his  side,  his  steady,  grey  eyes  observant 
of  all  around  him,  he  rolled  on,  in  true  nautical  style, 
towards  the  gipsy  camp.  This  was  not  hard  to  discover, 
for  it  lay  only  a  mile  or  so  from  Southberry  Junction,  some 
little  distance  off  the  main  road.  The  missionary  saw  a 
huddle  of  caravans,  a  few  straying  horses,  a  cluster  of  tawny, 
half-clad  children  rioting  in  the  sunshine ;  and  knowing  that 
this  was  his  port  of  call,  he  stepped  off  the  road  on  to  the 
grass,  and  made  directly  for  the  encampment.  He  had  a 
warrant  for  Mother  Jaei's  arrest  in  his  pocket,  but  save 
himself  there  was  no  one  to  execute  it,  and  it  migiit  be 
difficult  to  take  the  old  woman  in  charge  when  she  was — 
so  to  speak — safe  in  the  heart  of  her  kingdom.  However, 
Baltic  regarded  the  warrant  only  as  a  means  to  an  end,  and 
did  not  intend  to  use  it,  other  than  as  a  bogey  to  terrify 
Mother  J  ael  into  confession.  He  trusted  more  to  his 
religiosity  and  persuasive  capabilities  than  to  the  power 
of  the  law.  Nevertheless,  being  practical  as  well  as  senti- 
mental, he  was  glad  to  have  the  warrant  in  case  of  need ; 
for  it  was  possible  that  a  heathenish  witch  hke  Mother 
Jael  might  fear  man  more  than  God.  Finally,  Baltic  had 
some  experience  of  casting  religious  pearls  before  pagan 
swine,  and  therefore  was  discreet  in  his  use  of  spiritual 
remedies. 

Dogs  barked  and  children  screeched  when  Baltic  stepped 
into  the  circle  formed  by  caravans  and  tents ;  and  several 
swart,  sinewy,  gipsy  men  darted  threatening  glances  at  him 
as  an  intrusive  stranger.  There  burned  a  fire  near  one  of 
the  caravans,  over  which  was  slung  a  kettle,  swinging  from 
a  tripod  of  iron,  and  this  was  filled  with  some  savoury  stew, 
which  sent  forth  appetising  odours.  A  dark,  handsome 
girl,  with  golden  earrings,  and  a  yellow  handkerchief 
twisted  picturesquely  round  her  black  hair,  was  the  cook, 
and  she  turned  to  face  Baltic  with  a  scowl  when  he  inquired 
for  Mother  Jaei.  Evidently  the  Gentiles  were  no  favourites 
in  tile  camp  of  these  outcasts,  for  the  men  lounging  about 
murmured,  the  women  tittered  and  sneered,  and  the  very 
children  spat  out  evil  words  in  the  Romany  language.  But 
Baltic,  used  to  black  skins  and  black  looks,  was  not  daunted 
by  this  inhospitable  reception,  and  in  grave  tones  repeated 
his  inquiry  for  the  sibyl. 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  Who  are  you,  juggel-mush  ? '  *  asked  a  sinister-looking 
Hercules, 

•  I  am  one  who  wishes  to  see  Mother  Jael,'  replied 
Baltic,  in  his  deep  voice. 

'Arromalirt  sneered  the  Cleopatra-like  cook.  'She 
has  more  to  do  than  to  see  every  cheating,  choring 
Gentile.' 

'  Give  me  money,  my  royal  master,'  croaked  a  frightful 
cripple.     '  My  own  little  purse  is  empty.' 

'Oh,  what  a  handsome  Gorgio!'  whined  a  hag,  inter- 
spersing her  speech  with  curses.  '(May  evil  befall  him!) 
Good  luck  for  gold,  dearie.  (I  spit  on  vour  corpse,  Gentile  !  ) 
Charity  I     Charity  ! ' 

A  girl  seated  on  the  steps  of  a  caravan  cracked  her 
fingers,  and  spitting  three  times  for  the  evil  eye,  burst  into 
a  song : — 

'With  my  kissings  and  caressings 
I  can  gain  gold  from  the  Gentiles; 
But  to  evil  change  my  blessings.* 

All  this  clatter  and  clamour  of  harsh  voices,  mouthing 
the  wild  gipsies'  jargon,  had  no  effect  on  Baltic.  Seeing 
that  he  could  gain  nothing  from  the  mocking  crowd,  he 
pushed  back  one  or  two,  who  seemed  disposed  to  be 
affectionate  with  a  view  to  rubbing  his  pockets,  and  shouted 
loudly,  '  Mother  Jael  1  Mother  Jael  1 '  till  the  place  rang 
with  his  roaring. 

Before  the  gipsies  could  recover  from  their  astonishment 
at  this  sudden  change  of  front,  a  dishevelled  grey  head  was 
poked  out  from  one  of  the  black  tents,  and  a  thin  high 
voice  piped,  '  Dearie  !  lovey  I  Mother  Jael  be  here  ! ' 

'  I  thought  I  would  bring  you  out  of  your  burrow,'  said 
Baltic,  grimly,  as  he  strode  towards  her ;  '  in  with  you  again, 
old  Witch  of  Endor,  and  let  me  follow.' 

'  Hindity-Mush  !'|  growled  one  or  two,  but  the  appear- 
ance of  Mother  Jael,  and  a  few  words  from  her,  sent  the 
whole  gang  back  to  their  idling  and  working;  while  Baltic, 
quite  undisturbed,  dropped  on  all  fours  and  crawleu  into 

•  Juggel-mush  :  a  dogman, 

+  Arromali  :  truly. 

X  Hindity-Mu&b  :  a  dirty  cieatore- 

2l6 


What  Mother  J ael  knew 

the  black  tent,  at  the  tail  of  the  hag.  She  croaked  out  a 
welcome  to  her  visitor,  and  squatting  on  a  tumbled  mattress, 
leered  at  him  like  a  foul  old  toad.  Baltic  sat  down  near 
the  opening  of  the  tent,  so  as  to  get  as  much  fresh  air  as 
possible,  and  also  to  watch  Mother  Jael's  face  by  the 
glimmer  of  light  which  crept  in.  Spreading  his  handsome 
handkerchief  on  his  knee,  according  to  custom,  and  placing 
his  hat  thereon,  he  looked  straightly  at  the  old  hag,  and 
spoke  slowly. 

*  Do  you  know  why  I  am  here,  old  woman  ? '  he  demanded. 

*  Yes,  dearie,  yes  !  Ain't  it  yer  forting  as  y'  wan's  tole  ? 
Oh,  my  pretty  one,  you  asks  ole  mother  for  a  fair  future ! 
I  knows !     I  knows ! ' 

*  You  know  wrong  then  ! '  retorted  Baltic,  coolly.  *  I  am 
one  who  has  no  dealings  with  witches  and  familiar  spirits. 
I  ask  you  to  tell  me,  not  my  fortune — which  hes  in  the 
hand  of  the  Almighty — but  the  name  of  the  man  who 
murdered  the  creature  Jentham.' 

Mother  Jael  made  an  odd  whistling  sound,  and  her 
cunning  old  face  became  as  expressionless  as  a  mask. 
In  a  second,  save  for  her  wicked  black  eyes,  which 
smouldered  like  two  sparks  of  fire  under  her  drooping  lids, 
she  became  a  picture  of  stupidity  and  senility.  *  Bless  'ee, 
my  pretty  master,  I  knows  nought ;  all  I  knows  I  told  the 
Gentiles  yonder,'  and  the  hag  pointed  a  crooked  finger  in 
the  direction  of  Beorminster. 

'  Mother  of  the  witches,  you  lie ! '  cried  Baltic,  in  very 
good  Romany. 

The  eyes  of  Mother  Jael  blazed  up  like  torches  at  the 
sound  of  the  familiar  tongue,  and  she  eyed  the  weather- 
beaten  face  of  Baltic  with  an  amazement  too  genuine  to  be 
feigned.  *  Duvel ! '  said  she,  in  a  high  key  of  astonishment, 
'  who  is  this  Gorgio  who  patters  with  the  gab  of  a  gentle 
Romany  ?  ' 

'  I  am  a  brother  of  the  tribe,  my  sister.* 

*  No  gipsy,  though,'  said  the  hag,  in  the  black  language. 
*  You  have  not  the  glossy  eye  of  the  true  Roman.' 

*  No  Roman  am  I,  my  sister,  save  by  adoption.  As  a  lad 
I  left  the  Gentiles'  roof  for  the  merry  tent  of  Egypt,  and  for 
many  years  I  called  Lovels  and  Stanleys  my  blood-brothers.' 

'Then  why  come  you  with  a  double  face,  little  child?' 

15  217 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

CToalced  the  beldam,  who  knew  that  Bahic  was  speaking 
the  truth  from  his  knowledge  of  the  gipsy  tongue.  '  As  a 
Gentile  I  would  speak  no  word,  but  my  brother  you  are, 
and  as  my  brother  you  shall  know.' 

'  Know  who  killed  Jentham  1 '  said  Baltic,  hastily. 

•  Of  a  truth,  brother.  But  call  him  not  Jentham,  for  he 
was  of  Pharaoh's  blood.' 

•  A  gipsy,  mother,  or  only  a  Romany  rye  ? ' 

•Of  the  old  blood,  of  the  true  blood,  of  our  religion 
verily,  my  brother.  One  of  the  Lovels  he  was,  who  left 
our  merry  life  to  eat  with  Gorgios  and  fiddle  gold  out  of 
their  pockets.' 

•He  called  himself  Amaru  then,  did  he  not?'  said  Baltic, 
who  had  heard  this  much  from  Cargrim,  to  whom  it  had 
filtered  from  Miss  Whichello  through  Tinkler. 

'  It  is  so,  brother.  Amaru  he  called  himself,  and  Jentham 
and  Creagth,  and  a  dozen  other  names  when  cheating  and 
choriiig  the  Gentiles.  But  a  Bosvile  he  was  bom,  and  a 
Bosvile  he  died.' 

'That  is  just  it!'  said  Baltic,  in  English,  for  he  grew 
weary  of  using  the  gipsy  language,  in  which,  from  disuse,  he 
was  no  great  proficient.     '  How  did  he  die  ? ' 

'  He  was  shot,  lovey,'  replied  Mother  Jael,  relapsing  also  in- 
to the  vulgar  tongue;  *  shot,  dearie,  on  this  blessed  common.' 

'Who  shot  him?' 

•  Job  !  my  noble  rye,  I  can't  say.  Jentham,  he  come  'ere 
to  patter  the  calo  jib  and  drink  with  us.  He  said  as  he 
had  to  see  some  Gentile  on  that  night!  La!  lal  lal' 
she  piped  thinly,  '  an  evil  night  for  him  ! ' 

•On  Sunday  night — the  night  he  was  killed?' 

•  Yes,  pretty  one.  The  Gorgio  was  to  give  him  money 
for  soraeihin'  he  knowed.' 

'  Who  was  the  Gorgio  ? ' 

•  I  don'  know,  lovey  !    I  don'  know  ! ' 

•What  was  the  secret,  then?'  asked  Baltic,  casting  round 
for  information. 

•Bless  'ee,  my  tiny  !  Jentham  nivir  tole  me.  An'  I  was 
curis  to  know,  my  dove,  so  when  he  walks  away  half-seas 
over  I  goes  too.  I  follows,  lovey,  I  follow,  but  I  nivir  did 
cotch  him  up,  fur  rain  and  storm  comed  mos'  dreful.' 

'  Did  you  not  see  him  on  that  night,  then  ? ' 

2t8 


What  Mother  J ae I  hiew 

'  Sight  of  my  eyes,  I  sawr'  im  dead.  I  'eard  a  shot,  and 
I  run,  and  run,  dearie,  fur  I  know'd  as  'e  'ad  no  pistol ;  but 
I  los'  m'way,  my  royal  rye,  and  it  was  ony  when  th'  storm 
rolled  off  as  I  foun'  'im.  He  was  lyin'  in  a  ditch.  Such  was 
his  grave,'  continued  Mother  Jael,  speaking  in  her  own 
tongue,  '  water  and  grass  and  storm-clouds  above,  brother. 
I  was  afraid  to  touch  him,  afraid  to  wait,  as  these  Gentiles 
might  think  I  had  slain  the  man.  I  got  back  into  the  road, 
I  did,  and  there  I  picked  up  this,  which  I  brought  to  the 
camp  with  me.  But  I  never  showed  it  to  the  police, 
brother,  for  I  feared  the  Gentile  jails.' 

This  proved  to  be  a  neat  little  silver-mounted  pistol 
which  Mother  Jael  fished  out  from  the  interior  of  the 
mattress.  Baltic  balanced  it  in  his  hand,  and  believing,  as 
was  surely  natural,  that  Jentham  had  been  killed  with  this 
weapon,  he  examined  it  carefully. 

'  G.  P.,'  said  he,  reading  the  initials  graven  on  the  silver 
shield  of  the  butt 

*  Ah !  *  chuckled  Mother  Jael,  hugging  herself.  '  George 
Pendle  that  is,  lovey.  But  which  of  'em,  my  tender  dove — 
the  father  or  the  son  ?* 

'  Humph  ! '  remarked  Baltic,  meditatively,  '  they  are  both 
called  George.' 

'But  they  ain't  both  called  murderer,  my  brother. 
George  Pendle  shot  that  Bosvile  sure  enough,  an'  ef  y'arsk 
me,  dearie,  it  was  the  son — the  captain — the  sodger.  Ah, 
that  it  was  1 ' 


15  ■«• 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE     RETURN    OF    OABRIBL 

'  Mv  dear  Daisy,  I  am  sorry  you  are  going  away,  as  it  has 

been  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  have  you  in  my  house.  I 
hope  you  will  visit  me  again  next  year,  and  then  you  may  be 
more  fortunate.' 

Mrs  Pansey  made  this  amiable  little  speech — which  never- 
theless, like  a  scorpion,  had  a  sting  in  its  tail — to  Miss  Nor- 
sliam  on  the  platform  of  the  Beorminster  railway  station. 
After  a  stay  of  two  months,  the  town  mouse  was  departing 
as  she  had  come — a  single  young  woman ;  and  Mrs  Pansey's 
last  word  was  meant  to  remind  her  of  failure.  Daisy  was 
quick  enough  to  guess  this,  but,  displeased  at  the  taunt, 
chose  to  understand  it  in  another  and  more  gracious  sense, 
so  as  to  disconcert  her  spiteful  friend. 

'  Fortunate !  Oh,  dear  Mrs  Pansey,  I  have  been  very 
fortunate  this  time.  Really,  you  have  been  most  kind ;  you 
have  given  me  everything  I  wanted.* 

'  Excepting  a  husband,  my  dear,'  rejoined  the  arch- 
deacon's widow,  determined  that  there  should  be  no  mis- 
understanding this  time. 

'Ah!  it  was  out  of  your  power  to  give  me  a  husband,' 
murmured  Daisy,  wincing. 

'  Quite  true,  my  dear ;  just  as  it  was  out  of  your  power 
to  gain  one  for  yourself.  Still,  I  am  sorry  that  Dr  Alder 
did  not  propose.' 

'Indeed!'  Daisy  tossed  her  head.  *!  should  certainly 
have  refused  him  had  he  done  so.  A  woman  may  not 
marry  her  grandfather.' 

'A  woman  may  not,  but  a  woman  would,  rather  than 
remain  single,'  snapped  Mrs  Pansey,  with  considerable 
spite. 

Miss  Norsham  carefully  inserted  a  corner  of  a  foolish 
220 


The  Return  of  Gabriel 

little  handkerchief  into  one  eye.  '  Oh,  dear,  I  do  call  H 
nasty  of  you  to  speak  to  me  so,'  said  she,  tearfully.  *  You 
needn't  think,  like  all  men  do,  that  every  woman  wants  to 
be  married.     I'm  sure  I  don't.' 

The  old  lady  smiled  grimly  at  this  appalling  lie,  but 
thinking  that  she  had  been  a  little  hard  on  her  departing 
guest,  hastened  to  apologise.  'I'm  sure  you  don't,  dear, 
and  very  sensible  it  is  of  you  to  say  so.  Judging  from  my 
own  experience  with  the  archdeacon,  I  should  certainly 
advise  no  one  to  marry.' 

'  You  are  wise  after  the  event,'  muttered  Daisy,  with 
some  anger,  'but  here  is  my  train,  Mrs  Pansey,  thank 
you ! '  and  she  slipped  into  a  first-class  carriage,  looking 
decidedly  cross  and  very  defiant.  To  fail  in  husband- 
hunting  was  bad  enough,  but  to  be  taunted  with  the  failure 
was  unbearable.  Daisy  no  longer  wondered  that  Mrs 
Pansey  was  hated  in  Beorminster ;  her  own  feelings  at  tie 
moment  urged  her  to  thrust  the  good  lady  under  the  wheels 
of  the  engine. 

•  Well,  dear,  I'll  say  good-bye,*  said  Mrs  Pansey,  screw- 
ing her  grim  face  into  an  amiable  ^smile.  *  Be  sure  you  give 
my  love  to  your  mother,  dear,'  and  the  two  kissed  with  that 
show  of  affection  to  be  seen  existing  between  ladies  who  do 
not  love  one  another  over  much. 

•  Horrid  old  cat ! '  said  Daisy  to  herself,  as  she  waved  her 
handkerchief  from  the  now  moving  train. 

'  Dear  me !  how  I  dislike  that  girl,'  soliloquised  Mrs 
Pansey,  shaking  her  reticule  at  the  departing  Daisy.  '  Well ! 
well !  no  one  can  say  that  I  have  not  done  my  duty  by 
her,'  and  much  pleased  with  herself,  the  good  lady  stalked 
majestically  out  of  the  station,  on  the  lookout  to  seize  upon 
and  worry  any  of  her  friends  who  might  be  in  the  vicinity. 
For  his  sins  Providence  sent  Gabriel  into  her  clutches, 
and  Mrs  Pansey  was  transfixed  with  astonishment  at  the 
sight  of  him  issuing  from  the  station. 

•  Mr  Pendle ! '  she  said,  placing  herself  directly  in  his 
way,  'I  thought  you  were  at  Nauheim.  What  is  wrong? 
Is  your  mother  ill  ?  Is  she  coming  back  ?  Are  you 
in  trouble?* 

Gabriel  could  not  answer  all,  or  even  one  of  these 
questions  on  the  instant,  for  the  sudden  appearance  and 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

speech  of  the  Beorminster  busybody  had  taken  him  by 
surprise.  He  looked  haggard  and  white,  and  there  were 
dark  circles  under  his  eyes,  as  though  he  suffered  from 
want  of  sleep.  Still,  the  journey  from  Nauheim  might 
account  for  his  weary  looks,  and  would  have  done  so  to 
anyone  less  suspicious  than  Mrs  Pansey ;  but  that  good 
lady  scented  a  mystery,  and  wanted  an  explanation.  This, 
Gabriel,  with  less  than  his  usual  courtesy,  declined  to 
furnish.  However,  to  give  her  some  food  for  her  mind, 
he  answered  her  questions  categorically. 

•  I  have  just  returned  from  Nauheim,  Mrs  Pansey,*  he 
said  hurriedly.  'There  is  nothing  wrong,  so  far  as  I  am 
aware.  My  mother  is  much  better,  and  is  benefiting 
greatly  by  the  baths.  She  is  coming  back  within  the 
month,  and  I  am  not  in  trouble.  Is  there  anything  else 
you  wish  to  know?' 

'Yes,  Mr  Pendle,  there  is,'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  in  no 
wise  abashed.     '  Why  do  you  look  so  ill  ? ' 

'  I  am  not  ill,  but  I  have  had  a  long  sea-passage,  a 
weary  railway  journey,  and  I  feel  hot,  and  dirty,  and  worn 
out.  Naturally,  under  the  circumstances,  I  don't  look  the 
picture  of  health.' 

'Humph  !  trips  abroad  don't  ^o you  much  good.' 

Gabriel  bowed,  and  turned  away  to  direct  the  porter  to 
place  his  portmanteau  in  a  fly.  Offended  by  his  silence, 
Mrs  Pansey  shook  out  her  skirts  and  tossed  her  sable 
plumes.  'You  have  not  brought  back  French  politeness, 
young  man,'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  acridly. 

'I  have  been  in  Germany,'  retorted  Gabriel,  as  though 
that  fact  accounted  for  his  lack  of  courtesy.  'Good-bye 
for  the  present,  Mrs  Pansey;  I'll  apologise  for  my  short- 
comings when  I  recover  from  my  journey.' 

'  Oh,  you  will,  will  you  ? '  growled  the  archdeacon's  widow, 
as  Gabriel  lifted  his  hat  and  drove  off;  'you'll  do  more 
than  apolo::iise,  young  man,  you'll  explain.  Hoity-toity  I 
here's  brazen  assurance,' and  Mrs  Pansey,  with  her  Roman 
beak  in  the  air,  marched  off,  wondering  in  her  own  curious 
m'nd  what  could  be  the  reason  of  Gabriel's  sudden  return. 

Her  curiosity  would  have  been  gratified  had  she  been 
present  in  I)r  Graham's  consulting-room  an  hour  later; 
tor  after  Gabriel  had  bathed  and  brushed  up  at  his  lodgings, 


The  Return  of  Gabriel 

he  paid  an  immediate  visit  to  the  little  doctor.  Graham 
happened  to  be  at  home,  as  he  had  not  yet  set  out  on  his 
round  of  professional  visits,  and  he  was  as  much  astonished 
as  Mrs  Pansey  when  the  curate  made  his  appearance. 
Also,  like  Mrs  Pansey,  he  was  struck  by  the  young  man's 
worn  looks. 

'What!  Gabriel,'  he  cried,  when  the  curate  entered, 
*this  is  an  unexpected  pleasure.     You  look  ill,  hd  ! ' 

'I  am  ill,'  replied  Gabriel,  dropping  into  a  chair  with  an 
air  of  fatigue.  '  I  feel  very  much  worried,  and  I  have 
come  to  ask  for  your  advice.' 

•Very  pleased  to  give  it  to  yoti,  my  boy,  but  why  not 
consult  the  bishop  ? ' 

'  My  father  is  the  last  man  in  the  world  I  would  consult, 
doctor.' 

'  That  is  a  strange  speech,  Gabriel,'  said  Graham,  with  a 
keen  look. 

'  It  is  the  prelude  to  a  stranger  story !  I  have  come  to 
confide  in  you  because  you  have  known  me  all  my  life, 
doctor,  and  because  you  are  the  most  intimate  friend  my 
father  has.' 

'  Have  you  been  getting  into  trouble  ?  * 

•No.  My  story  concerns  my  father  more  than  it  does 
me.' 

'  Concerns  your  father ! '  repeated  the  doctor,  with  a 
sudden  recollection  of  the  bishop's  secret.  '  Are  you  sure 
that  I  am  the  proper  person  to  consult  ? ' 

•  I  am  certain  of  it.  I  know — I  know — well,  what  I  do 
know  is  something  I  have  not  the  courage  to  speak  to  my 
father  about.  For  God's  sake,  doctor,  let  me  tell  you 
my  suspicions  and  hear  your  advice.' 

'  Your  suspicions  1 '  said  Graham,  starting  from  his  chair, 
with  a  chill  in  his  blood.  'About — about— that — that 
murder  ? ' 

•  God  forbid,  doctor.  No !  not  about  the  murder,  but 
about  the  man  who  was  murdered.' 

•  Jentham  ? ' 

•Yes,  about  the  man  who  called  himself  Jentham. 
Are  you  sure  we  are  quite  private  here,  doctor  ? ' 

Graham  nodded,  and  walking  to  the  door  turned  the 
key.     Then  he  came  back  to  his  seat  and  fixed  his  eye.s 

«33 


The  Bishops  Secret 

on  the  perturbed  face  of  the  young  man.  'Does  your 
father  know  that  you  are  back?'  he  asked. 

'No  one  knows  that  I  am  here  save  MrsPansey.' 

'Then  it  won't  be  a  secret  long,'  said  Graham,  drily; 
'that  old  magpie  is  as  good  as  the  town-crier.  You  left 
your  mother  well  ? ' 

'  Quite  well ;  and  Lucy  also.  I  made  an  excuse  to 
come  back.' 

'Then  your  mother  and  sister  do  not  know  what  you 
are  about  to  tell  me  ?' 

Gabriel  made  a  gesture  of  horror.  '  God  forbid  ! '  said 
he  again,  then  clasped  his  hands  over  his  white  face  and 
burst  into  half  hysterical  speech.  'Oh,  the  horror  of  it, 
the  horror  of  it  ! '  he  wailed.  '  If  what  I  know  is  true,  then 
all  our  lives  are  ruined.' 

'  Is  it  so  very  terrible,  my  boy?' 

'  So  terrible  that  I  dare  not  question  my  father !  I 
must  tell  you,  for  only  you  can  advise  and  help  us  all. 
Doctor !  doctor !  the  very  thought  drives  me  mad — indeed, 
I  feel  half  mad  already.' 

•  You  are  worn  out,  Gabriel.     Wait  one  moment.' 

The  doctor  saw  that  his  visitor's  nerves  were  overstrained, 
and  that,  unless  the  tension  were  relaxed,  he  would  pro- 
bably end  in  having  a  fit  of  hysteria.  The  poor  young 
fellow,  born  of  a  weakly  mother,  was  neurotic  in  the  extreme, 
and  had  in  him  a  feminine  strain,  which  made  him  unequal 
to  facing  trouble  or  anxiety.  Even  as  he  sat  there,  shaking 
and  white-faced,  the  nerve-storm  came  on,  and  racked  and 
knotted  and  tortured  every  fibre  of  his  being,  until  a  burst  of 
tears  came  to  his  relief,  and  almost  in  a  swoon  he  lay  back 
limply  in  his  chair.  Graham  mixed  him  a  strong  dose  of 
valerian,  felt  his  pulse,  and  made  him  lie  down  on  the  sofa. 
Also,  he  darkened  t'ne  room,  and  placed  a  wet  handkerchief 
on  the  curate's  forehead.  Gabriel  closed  his  eyes,  and  lay 
on  the  couch  as  still  as  any  corpse,  while  the  doctor,  who 
knew  what  he  suffered,  watched  him  with  infinite  pity. 

'Poor  lad  !'  he  murmured,  holding  Gabriel's  hand  in  his 
firm,  warm  clasp.  'Nature  is  indeed  .i  harsh  stepmother 
to  you.  With  your  nerves,  the  pin-prickles  of  life  are  so 
many  da^iger-thrusts.  Do  you  feel  better  now  ?  '  he  asked, 
as  Gabriel  opened  his  eyes  with  a  lan^'uid  sigh. 

234 


The  Return  of  Gabriel 

•Much  better  and  more  composed,'  replied  the  wan 
curate,  sitting  ud.     'You  have  given  me  a  magical  drug.' 

*  You  may  well  call  it  that.  This  particular  preparation 
of  valerian  is  nepenthe  for  the  nerves.  But  you  are  not 
quite  recovered  yet ;  the  swell  remains  after  the  storm,  you 
know.     Why  not  postpone  your  sto:  v  ? ' 

'  I  cannot !  I  dare  not  I '  said  Gabriel,  earnestly.  '  I 
must  ease  my  mind  by  telling  it  to  you.  Doctor,  do  you 
know  that  the  visitor  who  made  my  father  ill  on  the  night 
of  the  reception  was  Jentham  ? ' 

•  No,  my  boy,  I  did  not  know  that.     Who  told  you  ? ' 
•John,  our  old  servant,  who  admitted   him.     He   told 

me  about  Jentham  just  before  I  went  to  Nauheim.' 

*  Did  Jentham  give  his  name  ? ' 

*  No,  but  John,  like  many  other  people,  saw  the  body  in 
the  dead-house.  He  there  recognised  Jentham  by  his 
gipsy  looks  and  the  scar  on  his  face.  Well,  doctor,  I 
wondered  what  the  mau  could  have  said  to  so  upset  the 
bishop,  but  of  course  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  him.  By  the 
time  I  got  to  Germany  the  episode  passed  out  of  my  mind.' 

'  And  what  recalled  it  ? ' 

*  Something  my  mother  said.  We  were  in  the  Kurgarten 
listening  to  the  band  when  a  Hiedelberg  student,  with  his 
face  all  seamed  and  slashed,  walked  past  us.' 

•  I  know ;  students  in  Germany  are  proud  of  those  duel- 
ling scars.     Well,  Gabriel,  and  what  then  ? ' 

The  curate  quivered  all  over,  and  instead  of  replying 
directly,  asked  what  seemed  to  be  an  irrelevant  question. 
•Did  you  know  that  my  mother  was  a  widow  when  my 
father  married  her  ? '  he  demanded  in  low  tone.s. 

•Of  course  I  did,'  replied  Graham,  cheerily.  'I  was 
practising  in  "Marylebone  then,  and  your  father  was  vicar 
of  St  Benedict's.  Why,  I  was  at  his  wedding,  Gabriel,  and 
very  pretty  your  mother  looked.  She  was  a  Mrs  Krant, 
whose  husband  had  been  killed  while  serving  as  a  volunteer 
in  the  Franco-Prussian  War  ! ' 

•  Did  you  ever  see  her  husband  ? ' 

•  No  ;  she  did  not  come  to  Marylebone  until  he  had  left 
her.  The  rascal  deserted  the  poor  young  thing  and  went 
abroad  to  fight.  But  why  do  you  ask  all  these  questions? 
They  cannot  but  be  painful.' 

P  225 


The  Bishops  Secret 

•Because  the  sight  of  that  student's  face  recalled  her  first 
husband  to  my  mother.  She  said  that  Krant  had  a  long 
scar  on  the  right  cheek.  I  immediately  thou^^ht  of 
Jentham.' 

'Good  God!'  cried  Graham,  pushing  back  his  chair. 
•What  do  you  mean,  lad  ?  ' 

•  Wait !  wait  ! '  said  Gabriel,  feverishly.  *  I  asked  my 
mother  to  describe  the  features  of  her  first  husband.  Not 
suspecting  my  reason  for  asking,  she  did  so.  Krant,  she 
said,  was  tall,  lean,  swart  and  black-eyed,  with  a  scar  on  the 
right  cheek  running  from  the  ear  to  the  mouth.  Doctor  ! ' 
cried  Gabriel,  clutching  Graham's  hand,  •  that  is  the  very 
portrait  of  the  man  Jentham.' 

•  Gabriel ! '  whispered  the  little  doctor,  hoarsely,  '  do  you 
mean  to  say — ' 

'  I  mean  to  say  that  Krant  did  not  die,  that  Jentham  was 
Krant,  and  that  when  he  called  on  my  father  he  appeared 
as  one  from  the  dead.  He  is  dead  now,  but  he  was  alive 
when  my  mother  became  my  father's  wife.' 

'  Impossible  !  Impossible  ! '  repeated  Graham,  who  was 
ashy  pale,  and  shaken  out  of  his  ordinary  self.  '  Krant 
died — died  at  Sedan.  Your  father  went  over  and  saw  his 
grave  ! ' 

'  He  did  not  see  the  corpse,  though.  I  tell  you  I  am 
right,  doctor.  Krant  did  not  die.  My  mother  is  not  my 
father's  wife,  and  we — we — George,  Lucy  and  myself  are  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law — nobody's  children.'  The  curate  uttered 
these  last  words  almost  in  a  shriek,  and  fell  back  on  the 
couch,  covering  his  face  with  two  trembling  hands. 

Gra'nam  sat  staring  straight  before  him  with  an  expres- 
sion of  absolute  horror  on  his  withered  brown  face.  He 
recalled  Pendle's  sudden  illness  after  Jentham  had  paid 
that  fatal  visit ;  his  refusal  to  confess  the  real  cause  of  his 
attack  ;  his  admission  that  he  had  a  secret  which  he  did  not 
dare  to  reveal  even  to  his  oldest  friend,  and  his  strange  act 
in  sending  away  his  wife  and  daughter  to  Nauheim.  All 
these  things  gave  colour  to  Gabriel's  supposition  that 
Jentham  was  Krant  returned  from  tlie  dead ;  but  after  all 
it  was  a  supposition  merely,  and  quite  unsupported  'y  fact 

•  There  is  no  proof  of  it^'  said  Graham,  hoarsely ;  '  no 
proof.' 

236 


The  Rettirn  of  Gabriel 

*Ask  my  father  for  the  proof,'  murmured  Gabriel.  *I 
dare  not ! ' 

The  doctor  could  understand  that  speech  very  well,  and 
now  saw  the  reason  why  Gabriel  had  chosen  to  speak  to 
him  rather  than  to  the  bishop.  It  might  he  true,  after  all, 
this  frightful  fact,  he  thought,  and  as  in  a  flash  he  saw  ruin, 
disaster,  shame,  terror  following  in  the  train  of  its  becom- 
ing known.  This,  then,  was  the  bishop's  secret,  and 
Graham  in  his  quick  way  decided  that  at  all  costs  it  must  be 
preserved,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  Mrs  Pendle  and  her 
children.  The  first  step  towards  attaining  this  end  was  to 
see  the  bishop  and  hear  confirmation  or  denial  from  his 
own  lips.  Once  Graham  knew  all  the  facts  he  fancied 
that  he  might  in  some  way — at  present  he  knew  not  how — 
help  his  wretched  friend.  With  characteristic  promptitude 
he  decided  on  the  spot  how  to  act 

'  Gabriel,'  he  said,  bending  over  the  unhappy  young 
man,  '  I  shall  see  your  father  about  this  at  once.  I  cannot, 
I  dare  not  believe  it  to  be  true,  unless  with  his  own  lips  he 
confirms  the  identity  of  Krant  with  Jentham.  You  wait 
here  until  I  return,  and  sleep  if  you  can.' 

*  Sleep  ! '  groaned  Gabriel.  '  Oh,  God  1  shall  I  ever  sleep 
again  ? ' 

'  My  friend,'  said  the  little  doctor,  solemnly,  *  you  have 
no  right  to  doubt  your  father's  honour  until  you  hear  what 
he  has  to  say.  Jentham  may  not  be  Krant  as  you  suspect. 
It  may  be  a  chance  likeness — a — ' 

Gabriel  shook  his  head.  *  You  can't  argue  away  what  I 
know  to  be  true,'  he  muttered,  looking  at  the  floor  with 
dry,  wild  eyes.  *  See  my  father  and  tell  him  what  I  have 
told  you.  He  will  not  be  able  to  deny  his  shame  and  the 
disgrace  of  his  children.' 

•That  we  shall  see,'  said  Graham,  with  a  cheerfulness  he 
was  far  from  feeling.  '  I  shall  see  him  at  once.  Gabriel,  my 
boy,  hope  for  the  best ! ' 

Again  the  curate  shook  his  head,  and  with  a  groan  flung 
himself  down  on  the  couch  with  his  face  to  the  wall. 
Seeing  that  words  were  vain,  the  doctor  threw  one  glance  of 
pity  on  his  prostrate  form,  and  with  a  sigh  passed  out  of 
the  room. 


327 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

THE  CONFESSION   OF   BISHOP   PF.NDLB 

Mr  Cargrim  was  very  much  out  of  temper,  and  Baltic  was 
the  cause  of  his  unchristian  state  of  mind.  As  the  tn.'ployer 
of  the  so-called  missionary  and  actual  inquiry  ageni,  the 
chaplain  expected  to  be  informed  of  every  fresh  discovery, 
but  with  this  view  Baltic  did  not  concur.  In  his  solemn 
way  he  informed  Cargrim  that  he  preferred  keeping  his 
information  and  methods  and  suspicions  to  himself  until 
he  was  sure  of  capturing  the  actual  criminal.  When  the 
man  was  lodged  in  lieorminster  Jail — when  his  complicity  in 
the  crime  was  proved  beyond  all  doubt — then  Baltic  promised 
to  write  out,  for  the  edification  of  his  employer,  a  detailed 
account  of  the  steps  taken  to  bring  about  so  satisfactory  a 
result.  And  from  this  stern  determination  all  Cargrim's 
arguments  failed  to  move  him. 

This  state  of  things  was  the  more  vexatious  as  Cargrim 
knew  that  the  ex-sailor  had  seen  Mother  Jael,  and  shrewdly 
suspected  that  he  had  obtained  from  the  beldam  valuable 
information  likely  to  incriminate  the  bishop.  Whether  his 
newly-found  evidence  did  so  or  not,  Baltic  gravely  declined 
to  say,  and  Cargrim  was  furious  at  being  left  in  ignorance. 
He  was  particularly  anxious  that  Dr  Pendle's  guilt  should 
be  proved  without  loss  of  time,  as  Mr  Leigh  of  Heathcroft 
was  sinking  rapidly,  and  on  any  day  a  new  rector  might  be 
needed  for  that  very  desirable  parish.  Certainly  Cargrim, 
as  he  fondly  imagined,  had  thwarted  Gabriel's  candidature 
by  revealing  the  young  man's  love  for  Bell  Mosk  to  the 
bishop.  Still,  even  if  Gabriel  were  not  nominated,  Dr 
Pendle  had  plainly  informed  Cargrim  that  he  need  not 
expect  the  appointment,  so  the  chaplain  foresaw  that  unless 
he  obtained  power  over  the  bishop  before  Leigh's  death, 
the  benefice  would  be  given  to  some  stranger.     It  was  no 

238 


The  Confession  of  Bishop  Pendie 

wonder,  then,  that  he  resented  the  silence  of  Baltic  and  felt 
enraged  at  his  own  impotence.  He  almost  regretted  having 
sought  the  assistance  of  a  man  who  appeared  more  likely  to 
be  a  hindrance  than  a  help.  For  once,  Cargrim's  scheming 
brain  could  devise  no  remedy. 

Lurking  about  the  library  as  usual,  Mr  Cargrim  was  much 
astonished  to  receive  a  visit  from  Dr  Graliam.  Of  course, 
the  visit  was  to  the  bishop,  but  Cargrim,  being  alone  in  the 
library,  came  forward  in  his  silky,  obsequious  way  to  receive 
the  new-comer,  and  politely  asked  what  he  could  do  for 
him. 

•  You  can  inform  the  bishop  that  I  wish  to  see  him,  if 
you  please,'  said  Graham,  with  a  perfectly  expressionless 
face. 

'  His  lordship  is  at  present  taking  a  short  rest,'  replied 
Cargrim,  blandly,  '  but  anything  I  can  do — ' 

'  You  can  do  nothing,  Mr  Cargrim.  I  wish  for  a  private 
interview  with  Dr  Pendle.' 

•Your  business  must  be  important.' 

*It  is,' retorted  Graham,  abruptly;  'so  important  that  I 
must  see  the  bishop  at  once.' 

•  Oh,  certainly,  doctor.  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  you  dc 
not  look  well.' 

'Thank  you ;  I  am  as  well  as  can  be  expected.' 

*  Really  !  considering  what,  Dr  Graham  ? ' 

*  Considering  the  way  I  am  kept  waiting  here,  Mr  Cargrim,' 
after  which  pointed  speech  there  was  nothing  left  for  the 
defeated  chaplain  but  to  retreat  as  gracefully  as  he  could. 
Yet  Cargrim  might  have  known,  from  past  experience,  that 
a  duel  of  words  with  sharp-tongued  Dr  Graham  could  only 
end  in  his  discomfiture.  But  in  spite  of  all  his  cunning  he 
usually  burnt  his  fingers  at  a  twice-touched  flame. 

Extremely  curious  to  know  the  reason  of  Graham's  un- 
expected visit  and  haggard  looks,  Cargrim,  having  informed 
the  bishop  that  the  doctor  was  waiting  for  him,  attempted 
to  make  a  third  in  the  interview  by  gliding  in  behind  his 
superior.  Graham,  however,  was  too  sharp  for  him,  and 
after  a  few  words  with  the  bishop,  intimated  to  the  chaplain 
that  his  presence  was  not  necessary.  So  Cargrim,  like  the 
Peri  at  the  Gates  of  Paradise,  was  forced  to  lurk  as  near  the 
library  door  as  he  dared,  and  he  strained  his  ears  in  vain  to 

229 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

overhear  what  the  pair  were  talking  about.  Had  he  known 
that  the  revelation  of  Bishop  Pendle's  secret  formed  the 
gist  of  the  interview,  he  would  have  been  even  more  en- 
raged than  he  was.  But,  for  the  time  being,  Fate  was 
against  the  wily  chaplain,  ami,  in  the  end,  he  was  compelled 
to  betake  himself  to  a  solitary  and  sulky  walk,  during  which 
his  reflections  concerning  Graham  and  Baltic  were  the 
reverse  of  amiable.  As  a  defeated  sneak,  Mr  Cargrim  was 
not  a  credit  to  his  cloth. 

Dr  Pendle  had  the  bewildered  air  of  a  man  suddenly 
roused  from  sleep,  and  was  inclined  to  be  peevish  with 
Graham  for  calling  at  so  untoward  a  time.  Yet  it  was  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  which  was  scarcely  a  suitable  hour 
for  slumber,  as  the  doctor  bluntly  remarked. 

*  I  was  not  asleep,'  said  the  bishop,  settling  himself  at  his 
writing-table.     '  I  simply  lay  down  for  half-an-hour  or  so.' 

'Worn  out  with  worry,  I  suppose?' 

*Yes,'  Dr  Pendle  sighed;  'my  burden  is  almost  greater 
than  I  can  bear.' 

'I  quite  agree  with  you,'  replied  Graham,  'therefore  I 
have  come  to  help  you  to  l>ear  it.' 

'That  is  impossible.  To  do  so,  you  must  know  the 
truth,  and — God  help  me  ! — I  dare  not  tell  it  even  to  you.' 

'  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  do  so,  Pendle.  I  know 
your  secret.' 

The  bishop  twisted  his  chair  round  with  a  rapid  move- 
ment and  stared  at  the  sympathetic  face  of  Graham  with  an 
expression  of  blended  terror  and  amazement.  Hardly  could 
his  tongue  frame  itself  to  speech. 

'  You — know — my — secret  1 '  stuttered  Pendle,  with  pale 
lips. 

'Yes,  I  know  that  Krant  did  not  die  at  Sedan  as  we 
supposed.  I  know  that  he  returned  to  life — to  Beorminster 
— to  you,  under  the  name  of  Jentham  !  Hold  up,  man  ! 
don't  give  way,'  for  the  bishop,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  had  fallen 
forward  on  his  desk,  and,  with  his  grey  head  buried  in  his 
arms,  lay  there  silent  and  broken  down  in  an  agony  of 
doubt,  and  fear  and  shame. 

'  Play  the  man,  George  Pendle,'  said  Graham,  who  knew 
that  the  father  was  more  virile  than  the  son,  and  therefore 
needed  the  tonic  of  words  rather  than  the  soothing  anodyne 

230 


The  Confession  of  Bishop  Pendle 

of  medicine.  *  If  you  believe  in  what  you  preach,  if  you  are 
a  true  servant  of  your  God,  call  upon  religion,  upon  your 
Deity,  for  help  to  bear  your  troubles.  Stand  up  manfully, 
my  friend,  and  face  the  worst ! ' 

•  Alas  !  alas !  many  waters  have  gone  over  me,  Graham,' 

•  Can  you  expect  anything  else  if  you  permit  yourself  to 
sink  without  an  effort?'  said  the  doctor,  rather  cyr.ically; 
'  but  if  you  cannot  gain  strength  from  Christianity,  then  be  a 
Stoic,  and  independent  of  supernatural  aid.' 

The  bishop  lifted  his  head  and  suddenly  rose  to  his  full 
height,  until  he  towered  above  the  little  doctor.  His  pale 
face  took  upon  itself  a  calmer  expression,  and  stretching  out 
his  arm,  he  rolled  forth  a  text  from  the  Psalms  in  his  deepest 
voice,  in  his  most  stately  manner :  '  In  God  is  my  salvation 
and  my  glory,  the  rock  of  my  strength,  and  my  refuge  is  in 
God.' 

'  Good ! '  said  Graham,  with  a  satisfied  nod ;  *  that  is  the 
proper  spirit  in  which  to  meet  trouble.  And  now,  Pendle, 
w^ith  your  leave,  we  will  approach  the  subject  with  more 
particularity.' 

'It  will  be  as  well,'  replied  the  bishop,  and  he  spoke 
collectedly  and  gravely,  with  no  trace  of  his  late  excite- 
ment. When  he  most  needed  it,  strength  had  come  to  him 
from  above ;  and  he  was  able  to  discuss  the  sore  matter  of 
his  domestic  troubles  with  courage  and  v;ith  judgment. 

•  How  did  you  learn  my  secret,  Graham  ? '  he  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

'  Indirectly  from  Gabriel.* 

'  Gabriel,'  said  the  bishop,  trembling,  'is  at  Nauheim  !* 

•  You  are  mistaken,  Pendle.  He  returned  to  Beorminster 
this  morning,  and  as  he  was  afraid  to  speak  to  you  on  the 
subject  of  Jentham,  he  came  to  ask  my  advice.  The  poor 
lad  is  broken  down  and  ill,  and  is  now  lying  in  my  consult- 
ing-room until  I  return.' 

•  How  did  Gabriel  learn  the  truth  ?  '  asked  Pendle,  with  a 
look  of  pain. 

•  From  something  his  mother  said.' 

The  bishop,  in  spite  of  his  enforced  calmness,  groaned 
aloud.  '  Does  she  know  of  it  ? '  he  murmured,  while  drops 
of  perspiration  beaded  his  forehead  and  betrayed  his  inward 
agony.     '  Could  not  that  shame  be  spared  me  ? ' 

•^31 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  Do  not  be  hasty,  Penclle,  your  wife  knows  nothing.' 

•  Thank  God  ! '  said  the  bishop,  fervently ;  then  added, 
almost  immediately,  '  You  say  my  wile.  Alas  .'  alas  !  that  I 
dare  not  call  her  so.' 

'  It  is  true,  then  ?'  asked  Graham,  becoming  very  pale. 

'  Perfectly  true.  Krant  was  not  killed.  Krant  returned 
here  under  the  name  of  Jentham.  My  wife  is  not  my  wife  ! 
My  children  are  illegitimate ;  they  have  no  name  ;  outcasts 
they  are.  Oh,  the  shame  I  Oh,  the  disgrace  I '  and  Di 
Pendle  groaned  aloud. 

Graham  sympathised  with  the  man's  distress,  which  was 
surely  natural  under  the  terrible  calamity  which  had  be- 
fallen him  and  his.  George  Pendle  was  a  priest,  a  i)relate, 
but  he  was  also  a  son  of  Adam,  and  liable,  like  all  mortals, 
the  strongest  as  the  weakest,  to  moments  of  doubt,  of  fear, 
of  trembling,  of  utter  dismay.  Had  the  evil  come  upon 
him  alone,  he  might  have  borne  it  with  more  patience,  but 
when  it  parted  him  from  his  dearly-loved  wife,  when  it 
made  outcasts  of  the  children  he  was  so  proud  of,  who  can 
wonder  that  he  should  feel  inclined  to  cry  with  Job,  •  Is  it 
good  unto  Thee  that  Thou  should'st  oppress  !  *  Neverthe- 
less, like  Job,  the  bishop  held  fast  his  integrity. 

Yet  that  he  might  have  some  comfort  in  his  affliction. 
that  one  pang  might  be  spared  to  him,  Graham  assured 
him  that  Mrs  Pendle  was  ignorant  of  the  truth,  and  re- 
lated in  full  the  story  of  how  Gabriel  had  corne  to  connect 
Jentham  with  Krant.  Pendle  listened  in  silence,  and 
inwardly  thanked  God  that  at  least  so  much  mercy  had 
been  vouchsafed  him.  Then  in  his  turn  he  made  a  con- 
fidant of  his  old  friend,  recalled  the  early  days  of  his 
courtship  and  marriage,  spoke  of  the  long  interval  of 
peace  and  quiet  happiness  which  he  and  his  wife  had 
enjoyed,  and  ended  with  a  detailed  account  of  the  dis- 
guised Krant's  visit  and  threats,  and  the  anguish  his  reap- 
pearance had  caused. 

'You  remember,  Graham!'  he  said,  with  wonderful  self- 
control,  'how  almost  thirty  years  ago  I  was  the  Vicar  of 
St  Benedict's  in  Marylebone,  and  how  you,  my  old  college 
friend,  practi'^ed  medicine  in  the  same  parish.' 

'  I  remember,  Pendle ;  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  make 
your  heart  ache  by  recalling  the  past' 


The  Confession  of  Bishop  Pendle 

'I  must,  my  friend,'  said  the  bishop,  firmly,  'in  order 
that  you  may  fully  understand  my  position.  As  you  know, 
my  dear  wife — for  I  still  must  call  her  so — came  to  reside 
there  under  her  married  name  of  Mrs  Krant.  She  was  poor 
a:)d  unhappy,  and  when  I  called  upon  her,  as  the  vicar  of 
the  parish,  she  told  me  her  miserable  story.  How  she  had 
left  her  home  and  family  for  the  sake  of  that  wretch  who 
had  attracted  her  weak,  girlish  affections  by  his  physical 
beauty  and  fascinating  manners;  how  he  treated  her  ill, 
spent  the  most  of  her  money,  and  finally  left  her,  within  a 
year  of  the  marriage,  with  just  enough  remaining  out  of 
her  fortune  to  save  her  from  starvation.  She  told  me  that 
Krant  had  gone  to  Paris,  and  was  serving  as  a  volunteer 
in  the  French  army,  while  she,  broken  di  wn  and  unhappy, 
had  come  to  my  parish  to  give  herself  to  God  and  labour 
amongst  the  poor.' 

'  She  was  a  charming  woman !  She  is  so  now  ! '  said 
Graham,  with  a  sigh.     '  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  loved  her.' 

'  Loved,  sir  1  Why  speak  in  the  past  tense  ?  I  love  her  still. 
I  shall  always  love  that  sweet  companion  of  these  many 
happy  years.  From  the  time  I  saw  her  in  those  poor 
London  lodgings  I  loved  her  with  all  the  strength  of  my 
manhood.  But  you  know  that,  being  already  married,  she 
could  not  be  my  wife.  Then,  shortly  after  the  surrender  of 
Sedan,  that  letter  came  to  tell  her  that  her  husband  was 
dead,  and  dying,  had  asked  her  pardon  for  his  wicked 
ways.     Alas  !  alas  !  that  letter  was  false  ! ' 

'  We  both  of  us  believed  it  to  be  genuine  at  the  time, 
Pendle,  and  you  went  over  to  France  after  the  war  to  see 
the  man's  grave.' 

'  I  did,  and  I  saw  the  grave — saw  it  with  its  tombstone, 
in  a  little  Alsace  graveyard,  with  the  name  Stephen  Krant 
painted  thereon  in  black  German  letters.  I  never  doubted 
but  that  he  lay  below,  and  I  looked  far  and  wide  for  the 
man,  Leon  Durand,  who  had  written  that  letter  at  the 
request  of  his  dying  comrade.  I  ask  you,  Graham,  who 
would  have  disbelieved  the  evidence  of  letter  and  tomb- 
stone ? ' 

'  No  one,  certainly ! '  replied  Graham,  gravely ;  *  but  it  was 
a  pity  that  you  could  not  find  Leon  Durand,  so  as  to  put 
the  matter  beyond  all  doubt' 

18  233 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

*  Find  him  I '  echoed  the  bishop,  passionately.  '  No  one  on 
earth  could  have  found  the  man.     He  did  not  exist.' 

'Then  who  wrote  the  letter?  ' 

*  Krant  himself,  as  he  told  me  in  this  very  room,  the 
wicked  plotter  ! ' 

•  But  his  handwriting ;  would  not  his  wife  have — * 

'  No  ! '  cried  Pen  Jle,  rising  and  pacing  too  and  fro,  greatly 
agitated,  'the  man  dis-uised  his  hand  so  that  his  wife  should 
not  recognise  it.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  bound  to  her,  but 
to  wander  far  and  wide,  and  live  his  own  sinful  life.  That 
was  why  he  sent  the  forged  letter  to  make  Amy  believe  that 
he  was  dead.  And  she  did  believe,  the  more  especially 
after  I  returned  to  tell  how  I  had  seen  his  grave.  I  thought 
also  that  he  was  dead.     So  did  you,  Graham.' 

'Certainly,'  assented  Graham,  'there  was  no  reason  to 
doubt  the  fact.  Who  would  have  believed  that  Krant  was 
such  a  scoundrel?' 

'  I  called  him  that  when  he  came  to  see  me  here,'  said 
Dr  Pendle,  with  a  passionate  gesture.  '  Old  man  and  priest 
as  I  am,  I  could  have  killed  him  as  he  sat  in  yonder  chair, 
smiling  at  my  misery,  and  taunting  me  with  my  position.' 

•  How  did  he  find  out  that  you  had  married  Mrs  Krant  ? ' 
*By  going  back  to  the  Marylel)one  parish.     He  had  been 

wander;  I  g  all  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  like  the  Cain  he 
was ;  but  meeting  with  no  good  fortune,  he  came  back  to 
England  to  find  out  Amy,  and,  I  suppose,  rob  her  of  the 
little  money  he  had  permitted  her  to  keep.  He  knew  of 
her  address  in  Marjlebone,  as  she  had  told  him  where 
she  was  going  before  he  deserted  her.' 

'But  how  did  he  learn  about  the  marriage?'  asked 
Graham,  again. 

'  I  cannot  tell ;  but  he  knew  that  his  wife,  after  his  deser- 
tion, devoted  herself  to  good  works,  so  no  doubt  he  went  to 
the  church  and  asked  about  her.  The  old  verger  who  saw 
us  married  is  still  alive,  so  I  suppose  he  told  Krant  that 
Amy  was  my  wife,  and  that  I  was  the  Bishop  of  Beor- 
minster.  But,  however  he  learned  the  truth,  he  found 
his  way  here,  and  when  I  came  into  this  room  during  th« 
reception  1  found  him  waiting  for  me.' 

'  How  did  you  recognise  a  man  you  had  not  seen  ?* 

'  By  a  portrait  Amy  had  shown  me,  and  by  the  descrip- 

234 


The  Confession  of  Bishop  Pendle 

tion  she  gave  me  of  his  gipsy  looks  and  the  scar  on  his 
cheek.  He  had  not  altered  at  all,  and  I  beheld  before  me 
the  same  wicked  face  I  had  seen  in  the  portrait.  I  was 
confused  at  first,  as  I  knew  the  face  but  not  the  name. 
When  he  told  me  that  he  was  Stephen  Krant,  that  my 
wife  was  really  his  wife,  that  my  children  had  no  name, 
I — I — oh,  God ! '  cried  Pendle,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  '  it  was  terrible  !  terrible ! ' 

'  My  poor  friend  I  * 

The  bishop  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  'After  close  on 
thirty  years,'  he  moaned,  'think  of  it,  Graham — the  shame, 
the  horror !     Oh,  God  ! ' 


«35 


CHAPTER  XXX 

BLACKMAIL 

For  5ome  moments  Graliam  did  not  speak,  but  looked  with 
pity  on  the  grief-shaken  frame  and  bowed  ohouiders  of  his 
sorely-tried  friend.  Indeed,  the  position  of  the  man  was 
such  that  he  did  not  see  wliat  coiufoi  t  lie  could  administer, 
and  so,  very  wisely,  held  his  peace.  However,  when  the 
bishc  p,  growing  more  composed,  remained  stiil  silent,  he 
could  not  forbear  offering  him  a  trille  of  consolation. 

•  Don't  grieve  so,  Per.dle ! '  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  other's  shoulder ;  '  it  is  not  your  fault  that  you  are  in 
this  position.' 

The  bishop  sighed,  and  murmured  with  a  shake  of  his 
head,  '  Oinms  qui  facit  peccatum,  servus  est  peccati  ! ' 

•But  you  have  not  done  sin  !'  cried  Graham,  dissenting 
from  the  text.  'You  !  your  wife  !  myself!  everyone  tliought 
that  Krant  was  dead  and  l)uried.  The  man  lied,  and  lied, 
and  forged,  to  gain  his  freedom — to  shake  off  the  marriage 
bonds  which  galled  him.  He  was  the  sinner,  not  you,  my 
poor  innocent  friend  ! ' 

•  True  enough,  doctor,  but  I  am  the  sufferer.  Had  God 
in  His  mercy  not  sustained  me  in  my  hour  of  trial,  I  do  not 
know  how  1  siiould  have  borne  ray  misery,  weak,  erring 
mortal  that  I  am.' 

'That  speech  is  one  befitting  your  age  and  office,'  said 
the  doctor,  gravely,  'and  I  quite  approve  of  it.  All  the 
same,  there  is  another  religious  saying — I  don't  know  if  it 
can  be  c.d'ed  a  text — "God  helps  those  who  help  them- 
selves."    You  will  do  well,  Pendle,  to  lay  that  to  heart.' 

'How  can  I  hel[>  myself?'  said  the  bishop,  hoi'elessly 
•The  man  is  dead  now,  without  lioubt;  but  he  was  alive 
when  I  married  his  supposed  widow,  therefoie  the  ceromony 
is  null  and  void.     There  is  no  getting  behind  that  lact.' 

i36 


Blackmail 

•Have  you  consulted  a  lawyer  on  your  position? * 

'No.  The  law  cannot  sanction  a  union — at  least  in  my 
eyes — which  I  know  to  be  against  the  tenets  of  the  Church. 
So  far  as  I  know,  if  a  husband  deserts  his  wife,  and  is  not 
heard  of  for  seven  years,  she  can  marry  again  after  that 
period  without  being  liable  to  prosecution  as  a  bigamist, 
but  in  any  case  the  second  ceremony  is  not  legal.' 

'  Mrs  Krant  became  your  wife  before  the  expiration  of 
seven  years,  I  know,'  said  Graham,  wrinkling  his  brow. 

'  Certainly.  And  therefore  she  is — in  the  ej  es  of  the  law 
— a  bigamist' — the  bishop  shuddered — 'although,  God 
knows,  she  fully  believed  her  husband  to  be  dead.  But  the 
religious  point  of  view  is  the  one  I  take,  doctor;  as  a 
Churchman,  I  cannot  live  with  a  woman  whom  I  know  is 
not  my  wife.     It  was  for  that  reason  that  I  sent  her  away  ! ' 

'  But  you  cannot  keep  her  away  for  ever,  bishop  ! — at  all 
events,  unless  you  explain  the  position  to  her.' 

•  I  dare  not  do  that  in  her  present  state  of  health  ;  the 
shock  would  kill  her.  No,  Graham,  I  see  that  sooner  or 
later  she  must  know,  but  I  wished  for  her  absence  that  I 
might  gain  time  to  consider  my  terrible  position.  I  have 
considered  it  in  every  way — but,  God  help  me  !  I  can  see  no 
hope — no  escape.     Alas  !  alas  !  I  am  sorely,  sorely  tried.' 

Graham  reflected.  *  Are  you  perfectly  certain  that  Jentham 
and  Krant  are  one  and  the  same  man?'  he  asked  doubt- 
fully. 

'  I  am  certain  of  it,'  replied  Pendle,  decisively.  *  I  could 
not  be  deceived  m  the  dark  gipsy  face,  in  the  peculiar 
cicatrice  on  the  right  cheek.  And  he  knew  all  about  my 
wife,  Graham — about  her  family,  her  maiden  name,  the 
amount  of  her  fortune,  her  taking  up  parish  work  in 
Marylebone.  Above  all,  he  showed  me  the  certificate  of 
his  marriage,  and  a  number  of  letters  written  to  him  by 
Amy,  reproaching  him  with  his  cruel  desertion.  Oh,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  this  Jentham  is — or  rather  was — 
Stephen  Krant.* 

'  It  would  seem  so  !'  sighed  Graham,  heavily.  '  Evidently 
there  is  no  hope  of  proving  him  to  be  an  impostor  in  the 
face  of  such  evidence.' 

'He  came  to  extort  money.  I  suppose?' 

'  Need  you  ask  I '  said  the  bishop,  bitterly.    'Yes,  his  sole 

137 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

object  was  blackmail ;  he  was  content  to  let  things  remain 
as  they  are,  provided  his  silence  was  purchased  ai  his  own 
price.  He  told  me  that  if  I  paid  him  two  hundred  pounds 
he  would  hand  over  ceitificate  and  letters  and  disappear, 
never  to  trouble  me  again.' 

*I  doubt  if  such  a  blackguard  would  keep  his  word, 
Pendle.  Moreover,  alihough  novelists  and  dramatists  attach 
such  a  value  to  marriage  certificates,  they  are  really  not 
worth  the  paper  they  are  written  on — save,  perhaps,  as 
immediate  evidence.  The  register  of  the  church  in  which 
the  ceremony  took  place  is  the  important  document,  and 
that  can  neither  be  handed  over  nor  destroyed.  Krant 
was  giving  you  withered  leaves  for  your  good  gold,  Pendle. 
Still,  Needs  must  when  Sir  Urian  drives,  so  1  suppose 
you  agreed  to  the  bribe.' 

The  bishop's  grey  head  drooped  on  his  breast,  his  eyes 
sougiit  the  carpet,  and  he  looked  like  a  man  overwhelmed 
with  shame.  'Yes,'  he  replied,  in  low  tones  of  pain,  'I 
had  not  the  courage  to  face  the  conse  juences.  Indeed, 
what  else  could  I  do?  I  could  not  have  the  man  denounce 
my  marriage  as  a  false  one,  force  himself  into  the  presence 
of  my  delicate  wife,  and  tell  my  children  that  they  are 
nameless.  The  shock  would  have  killed  Amy;  it  would 
have  broken  my  children's  hearts;  it  would  have  shamed 
me  in  my  high  position  before  the  eyes  of  all  England.  I 
was  innocent;  I  am  innocent.  Yes,  but  the  fact  remained, 
as  it  remains  now,  that  I  am  not  married  to  Amy,  that  my 
children  are  not  entitled  to  bear  my  name.  I  ask  you, 
Graham — I  ask  you,  what  else  could  I  do  than  pay  the 
money  in  the  face  of  such  shame  and  disgrace?* 

'  There  is  no  need  to  excuse  yourself  to  me,  Pendle.  I 
do  not  blame  you  in  tlie  least.' 

'  But  I  blame  myself — in  part,'  replied  the  bishop,  sadly. 
'As  an  honest  man  I  knew  that  my  marriage  was  illegal;  as 
a  priest  I  was  bound  to  put  away  the  woman  who  was  not 
— who  is  not  my  wife,  liut  think  of  the  s!;ame  to  her,  of 
the  disgrace  to  my  innocent  children.  I  could  not  do  it, 
Graham,  I  could  not  do  it.  Satan  came  to  me  in  such  a 
guise  that  I  yielded  to  his  tempting  without  a  struggle.  I 
agreed  to  buy  Jentham's  silence  at  his  own  price;  and  as  I 
did  not  wish  him  to  come  here  again,  lest  Amy  should  see 


Blackmail 

him,  I  made  an  appointment  to  meet  him  on  Southberry 
Heath  on  Sunday  night,  and  there  pay  him  his  two 
hundred  pounds  blackmail.' 

'  Did  you  speak  with  him  on  the  spot  where  his  corpse 
was  afterwards  found  ? '  asked  Graham,  in  a  low  voice,  not 
daring  to  look  at  his  friend, 

'  No,'  answered  the  bishop,  simply,  not  suspecting  that 
the  doctor  hinted  at  the  murder ;  '  I  met  him  at  the  Cross- 
Roads.' 

*  You  had  the  money  with  you,  I  suppose  ? ' 

•  I  had  the  money  in  notes  of  tens.  As  I  was  unwilling 
to  draw  so  large  a  sum  from  the  Beorminster  Bank,  lest  my 
doing  so  should  provoke  comment,  I  made  a  special 
journey  to  London  and  obtained  the  money  there.' 

'  I  think  you  were  over-careful,  bishop.' 

•Graham,  I  tell  you  I  was  overcome  with  fear,  not  so 
much  for  myself  as  for  those  dear  to  me.  You  know  how 
the  most  secret  things  become  known  in  this  city ;  and  I 
dreaded  lest  my  action  should  become  public  property,  and 
should  be  connected  in  some  way  with  Jentham.  Why,  I 
even  tore  the  butt  of  the  cheque  I  drew  out  of  the  book, 
lest  any  record  should  remain  likely  to  excite  suspicion.  I 
took  the  most  elaborate  precautions  to  guard  against 
discoveries.' 

'  And  rather  unnecessary  ones,'  rejoined  Graham,  dryly. 
•Well,  and  you  met  the  scamp?' 

•  I  did,  on  Sunday  night — that  Sunday  I  was  at  South- 
berry  holding  a  confirmation  service,  and  as  I  rode  back, 
shortly  after  eight  in  the  evening,  I  met  Jentham,  by 
appointment,  at  the  Cross-Roads.  It  was  a  stormy  and  wet 
night,  Graham,  and  I  half  thought  that  he  would  not  come 
to  the  rendezvous,  but  he  was  there,  sure  enough,  and  in 
no  very  good  temper  at  his  wetting,  I  did  not  get  off  my 
horse,  but  hnnded  down  the  packet  of  notes,  and  asked  him 
for  the  certificate  and  letters.' 

'  Which,  no  doubt,  he  declined  to  part  with  at  the  last 
moment.' 

'  You  are  right,'  said  the  bishop,  mournfully  ;  '  he  declared 
that  he  would  keep  the  certificate  until  he  received  another 
hundred  pounds.' 

*  The  scoundrel  I    What  did  you  say  ? ' 

239 


TJie  Bishop's  Secret 

*  Wliat  could  I  say  but  "Yes"?  I  was  in  the  man's 
power.  At  any  cost,  if  I  wanted  to  save  myself  and  those 
dear  to  me,  I  had  to  secure  the  written  evidence  he 
possessed.  I  told  him  that  I  had  not  the  extra  money  with 
me,  but  that  if  he  met  me  in  the  same  place  a  week  later 
he  should  Iiave  it.  I  then  rode  away  downcast  and 
wretched.  The  next  day,'  concluded  the  bishop,  quietly, 
'  I  heard  that  my  enemy  was  dead.' 

'  Murdered,*  said  Graham,  explicitly. 

'Murdered,  as  you  say,'  rejoined  Pendle,  tremulously; 
'  and  oh,  my  friend,  I  fear  that  the  Cain  who  slew  him  now 
has  the  certificate  in  his  possession,  and  holds  my  secrei. 
What  I  have  suffered  with  that  knowledge,  God  alone 
knows.  Every  day,  every  hour,  I  have  been  expecting  a 
call  from  the  assassin.' 

'  The  deuce  you  have  ! '  said  the  doctor,  surprised  into 
unbecoming  language. 

'Yes;  he-  miy  come  and  blackmail  me  also,  Graham  !' 

'Not  when  he  runs  the  risk  of  being  hanged,  my 
friend.' 

'  But  you  forget,'  said  the  bishop,  with  a  sigh.  '  He  may 
trust  to  his  knowledge  of  my  secret  to  force  me  to  conceal 
his  sin.' 

'  Would  you  be  coerced  in  that  way  ? ' 

Dr  Pendle  threw  back  his  noble  head,  and,  looking 
intently  at  his  friend,  replied  in  a  firm  and  unfaltering  tone. 
'  No,'  said  he,  gravely.  '  Even  at  the  co-^t  of  my  secret 
becoming;  known,  I  should  have  the  man  arrested.' 

'  Well,'  said  Graham,  with  a  slin.'g,  '  you  are  more  of  a 
hero  than  I  am,  bishop.  The  cost  of  exposing  the  wretch 
seems  too  great.' 

'  Graham !  Graham  !  I  must  do  what  is  right  at  all 
hazards.' 

'Fiat  justitia  ruat  celum!'  muttered  the  doctor,  'there 
is  a  morsel  of  dictionary  l^tin  for  you.  The  heavens  above 
your  family  will  certainly  fall  if  you  speak  out.' 

The  bishop  winced  an.'  whitened.  '  It  is  a  heavy  burden, 
Graham,  a  heavy,  heavy  burden,  but  God  will  give  me 
strength  to  bear  it  He  will  save  me  according  to  His 
merry.' 

The  little  doctor  looked  meditatively  at  his  boots.  H« 
240 


Blackmail 

wished  to  tell  Pendle  that  the  chaplain  suspected  him  of 
the  murder,  and  that  Baltic,  the  missionary,  had  been 
brought  to  Beorminster  to  prove  such  suspicions,  but  at 
the  present  moment  he  did  not  see  how  he  could  con- 
veniently introduce  the  information.  Moreover,  the  bishop 
seemed  to  be  so  utterly  unconscious  that  anyone  could 
accuse  him  of  the  crime,  that  Graham  shrank  from  being 
the  busybody  to  enlighten  him.  Yet  it  was  necessary  that 
he  should  be  informed,  if  only  that  he  might  be  placed  on 
his  guard  against  the  machinations  of  Cargrim.  Of  course, 
the  doctor  never  for  one  moment  thought  of  his  respected 
friend  as  the  author  of  a  deed  of  violence,  and  quite 
believed  his  account  of  the  meeting  with  Jentham.  The 
bishop's  simple  way  of  relating  the  episode  would  have 
convinced  any  liberal-minded  man  of  his  innocence  and 
rectitude.  His  accents,  and  looks,  and  candour,  all  carried 
conviction. 

Finally  Graham  hit  upon  a  methr^d  of  leading  up  to  the 
subject  of  Cargrim's  treachery,  by  referring  to  the  old  gipsy 
and  her  fortune-telling  at  Mrs  Pansey's  ga'den-i  arty. 
'  What  does  Mother  Jael  know  of  your  secret  ? '  he  asked 
with  some  hesitation. 

*  Nothing  ! '  replied  the  bishop,  promptly ;  *  it  is  impossible 
that  she  can  know  anything,  unless' — here  he  paused — 
*  unless  she  is  aware  of  who  killed  Jentham,  and  has  seen 
the  certificate  and  letters  ! ' 

*  Do  you  think  she  knows  who  murdered  the  man  ? ' 

'I — cannot — say.  At  that  garden-party  I  went  into  the 
tent  to  humour  some  ladies  who  wished  me  to  have  my 
fortune  told.' 

'  I  saw  you  go  in,  bishop ;  and  you  came  out  looking 
disturbed.' 

*No  wonder,  Graham;  for  Mother  Jael,  under  the 
pretence  of  reading;;  my  hand,  hinted  at  my  secret.  I 
fancied,  from  what  she  said,  that  she  knew  what  it  was  ;  and 
I  accused  her  of  having  gained  the  information  from 
Jentham's  assassin.  However,  she  would  not  speak  plainly, 
but  warned  me  of  coming  trouble,  and  talked  about  blood 
and  the  grave,  until  I  really  believe  she  fancied  I  had 
killed  the  man.  I  could  make  nothing  of  her,  so  I  left 
the  tent  considerably  discomposed,  as  you  may  guess.     I 

Q  241 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

intended  to  see  her  on  another  occasion,  but  as  yet  I  have 
not  done  so.' 

'  Is  it  your  belief  that  the  woman  knows  your  secret  ? ' 
asked  Graham. 

'No.  On  consideration,  I  concluded  that  she  knew  a 
little,  but  not  much — at  all  events,  not  sufficient  to  hurt  me 
in  any  way.  Krant — that  is  Jentham — was  of  gipsy  blood, 
and  I  fancied  that  he  had  seen  Mother  Jael,  and  perhaps, 
in  his  boastful  way,  had  hinted  at  his  power  over  me.  Still, 
I  am  quite  certain  that,  for  his  own  sake,  he  did  not  reveal 
my  secret.  And  after  all,  Graham,  the  allusions  of  Mother 
Jael  were  vague  and  unsatisfactory,  although  they  disturbed 
me  sufficiently  to  make  me  anxious  for  the  moment.* 

'Well,  bishop,  I  agree  with  you.  Mother  Jael  cannot 
know  much  or  she  would  have  spoken  plainer.  So  far  as 
she  is  concerned,  I  fancy  your  secret  is  pretty  safe ;  but,' 
added  Graham,  with  a  glance  at  the  door,  *  what  about 
Cargrim?' 

•  He  knows  nothing,  Graham.' 

•  Perhaps  not,  but  he  suspects  much.' 

'  Suspects  ! '  echoed  the  bishop,  in  scared  tones.  •  What 
can  he  suspect  ?  ' 

'  That  you  killed  Jentham,'  said  Graham,  quietly. 

Dr  Pendle  looked  incredulously  at  his  friend.  '  I — I — 
murder — I  kill — what — Cargrim — says,'  he  stammered  ; 
then  asked  him  with  a  sharp  rush  of  speech,  '  Is  the  man 
mad?' 

'  No ;  but  he  is  a  scoundrel,  as  I  told  you.  Listen, 
bishop,'  and  in  his  rapid  way  Graham  reported  to  Dr 
Pendle  all  that  Harry  Brace  had  told  him  regarding 
Cargrim  and  his  schemes. 

The  bishop  listened  in  incredulous  silence ;  but,  almost 
against  his  will,  he  was  obliged  to  believe  in  Graham's 
story.  That  a  man  whom  he  trusted,  whom  he  had  treated 
with  such  kindness,  should  have  dug  this  pit  for  him  to  fall 
into,  was  almost  beyond  belief ;  and  when  the  truth  of  the 
accusation  was  forced  upon  him,  he  hardly  knew  what  to 
say  about  so  great  a  traitor.  But  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  one  thing.  '  I  shall  dismiss  him  at  once ! '  he  said 
determinedly. 

'No,  bishop.     It  is  unwise  to  drive  a  rat  into  a  corner; 

242 


Blackmail 

and  Cargrim  may  prove  himself  dangerous  if  sharply 
treated.  Better  tolerate  his  presence  until  Baltic  discovers 
the  real  criminal.' 

'  I  don't  like  the  position,'  said  the  bishop,  frowning. 

•  No  man  would.    However,  it  is  better  to  temporise  than 
to  risk  all  and  lose  all.     Better  let  him  remain,  Pendle,' 

'Very  well,  Graham,  I  shall  take  your  advice.' 

•  Good  ! '    Graham  rose  to  depart.     '  And  Gabriel  ? '  he 
asked,  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

•  Send  him  to  me,  doctor.  I  must  speak  to  him.' 
•You  won't  scold  him  for  seeing  me  first,  I  hope.' 
•Scold  him,'  said  the  bishop,  with  a  melancholy  smile. 

*  Alas,  my  friend,  the  situation  is  too  serious  for  scolding  ! ' 


U,l 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

IIR    BALTIC   ON   THE   TRAIL 

What  took  place  at  the  interview  between  Gabriel  and  his 
father,  Dr  Grahatn  never  knew;  and  indeed  never  sought 
to  knuw.  He  was  a  discreet  man  even  for  a  doctor,  and 
meddled  with  no  one's  business,  unless — as  in  the  present 
instance — forced  to  do  so.  But  even  then  his  discretion 
showed  itself;  for  after  advising  the  bishop  to  tolerate  the 
presence  of  Cargrini  until  Baltic  had  solved  the  riddle  he 
was  set  to  guesi^,  and  afti.  r  sending  Gabriel  to  the  palace, 
he  abstained  from  further  inquiries  and  discussions  in  con- 
nection wit'o  rnurder  and  secret.  He  had  every  faith  ia 
Bailie,  ana  quite  believed  that  in  time  the  missionary  would 
lay  his  hand  on  the  actual  murderer.  When  this  was 
accomplished,  and  Cargrim's  attempt  to  gain  illegal  power 
over  Pendle  was  thwarted  ;  then — all  chance  of  a  public 
scandal  being  at  an  end — would  be  tiie  moment  to  con- 
sider how  the  bishop  should  act  in  reference  to  his  false 
marriage.  Certainly  ihere  was  the  possible  danger  that  the 
criminal  might  learn  the  secret  from  the  certificate  and 
papers,  and  might  reveal  it  when  captured ;  but  Graham 
thought  it  best  to  ignore  this  difficulty  until  it  should 
actually  arise.  For,  after  all,  such  a  contingency  might 
not  occur. 

'The  certificate  of  marriage  between  Krant  and  his  wife 
will  reveal  nothing  to  a  man  unacquainted  with  Mrs  Pendle's 
previous  name;  and  without  such  knowledge  he  cannot 
know  that  she  married  the  bishop  while  her  first  husband 
was  alive.  Certainly  she  might  have  mentioned  Pendle's 
name  in  the  letters,  but  she  would  not  write  of  him  as  a 
lover  or  as  a  pojsil)'.e  husband ;  therefore,  unless  the 
assassin  knows  something  of  the  story,  which  is  improb- 
able, and  unless  he  can  connect  the  name  of  Mrs  Krant 

244 


Mr  Baltic  on  the  Trail 

with  Mrs  Pendle — which  on  the  face  of  it  is  impossible— 
I  do  not  see  how  he  is  to  learn  the  truth.  He  may  guess, 
or  he  may  know  for  certain,  that  Jentham  received  the  two 
hundred  pounds  from  the  bishop,  but  he  cannot  guess 
that  the  price  was  paid  for  certificate  and  letters,  especially 
as  he  found  them  on  the  body,  and  knows  that  they  were 
not  handed  over  for  the  money.  No ;  on  the  whole,  I  think 
Pendle  is  mistaken ;  in  my  opinion  there  is  no  danger  to  be 
feared  from  the  assassin,  whomsoever  he  may  be.' 

In  this  way  Graham  argued  with  himself,  and  shortly 
came  to  the  comfortable  conclusion  that  Dr  Pendle's  secret 
would  never  become  a  public  scandal.  Now  that  Jentham, 
ali^js  Krant,  was  dead,  the  secret  was  known  to  three  people 
only — namely,  to  the  bishop,  to  himself,  and  to  Gabriel.  If 
none  of  the  three  betrayed  it — and  they  had  the  strongest 
reason  for  silence — no  one  else  would,  or  could.  The 
question  of  the  murder  was  the  immediate  matter  for  con- 
sideration ;  and  once  Dr  Pendle's  innocence  was  proved  by 
the  capture  of  the  real  assassin,  Caryrim  could  be  dismissed 
in  well-merited  disgrace.  With  all  the  will  in  the  world  he 
could  not  then  harm  the  bishop,  seeing  that  he  was  ignorant 
of  the  dead  man's  relation  to  Mrs  Pendle.  Other  danger 
there  was  none;  of  that  the  little  doctor  was  absolutely 
assured. 

Perhaps  the  bishop  argued  in  this  way  also ;  or  it  may  be 
he  found  a  certain  amount  of  relief  in  sharing  his  troubles 
with  Gabriel  and  Graham  ;  but  he  certainly  appeared  more 
cheerful  and  less  worried  than  formerly,  and  even  tolerated 
the  society  of  Cargrim  with  equanimity,  although  he  de- 
tested playing  a  part  so  foreign  to  his  frank  and  honourable 
nature.  However,  he  saw  the  necessity  of  masking  liis 
dislike  until  the  sting  of  this  domestic  viper  could  be 
rendered  innocuous,  and  was  sufficiently  gracious  on  such 
occasions  as  he  came  into  contact  with  him.  Gabriel  was 
less  called  upon  to  be  courteous  to  the  schemer,  as,  having 
come  to  a  complete  understanding  with  his  father,  he  rarely 
visited  the  palace ;  but  when  he  did  so  his  demeanour 
towards  Mr  Cargrim  was  much  the  same  as  of  yore.  For 
the  good  of  their  domestic  peace,  both  father  and  son  con- 
cealed their  real  feelings,  and  succeeded  as  creditably  as 
was  possible  with  men  of  their  honourable  natures.     But 

245 


The  Bishops  Secret 

they  were  not  cunning  enough — or  perhaps  sufficiently 
guarded — to  deceive  the  artful  chaplain.  Evil  himself,  he 
was  always  on  the  alert  t<)  see  evil  in  others. 

'I  wonder  wliat  all  this  means,'  he  ruminated  one  day 
after  vainly  attempting  to  learn  why  Gabriel  had  returned 
so  unexpectedly  to  Beorminster.  'The  bishop  seems  un- 
necessarily polite,  and  youi^g  Pendle  appears  to  be  careful 
how  he  speaks.  They  surely  can't  sufpcct  me  of  knowing 
about  the  murder.  Perhaps  Baltic  has  been  talking;  I'll 
just  give  him  a  word  of  warning.' 

This  he  did,  and  was  promptly  told  by  the  ex-sailor  not 
to  advise  on  points  of  which  he  was  ignorant.  '  I  know  my 
business,  sir,  none  better,'  observed  Baltic,  in  his  solemn 
way,  'and  there  are  few  men  who  are  more  aware  of  the 
value  of  a  silent  tongue.' 

'You  may  be  an  admirable  detective,  as  you  say,'  retorted 
Cargrim,  nettled  by  the  rebuke,  '  but  I  have  only  your  word 
for  it;  and  you  will  permit  me  to  observe  that  I  have  not 
yet  seen  a  proof  of  your  capabilities.' 

'All  in  good  time,  Mr  Cargrim.  More  haste  less  speed, 
sir.     I  fancy  I  am  on  the  right  track  at  last.' 

'Can  you  guess  who  killed  the  man?'  asked  the  chaplain, 
eagerly  waiting  for  the  bishop's  name  to  be  pronounced. 

'I  never  guess,  sir.  I  theorise  from  external  evidence, 
and  then  try,  with  such  brains  as  God  has  given  me,  to 
prove  my  theories.' 

'You  have  gained  some  evidence,  then?' 

'  If  I  have,  Mr  Cargrim,  you'll  hear  it  when  I  place  the 
murderer  in  the  dock.  It  is  foolish  to  show  half-finished 
work.' 

'  But  if  the  mur— ' 

'Hold  hard,  sir!'  interrupted  Baltic,  raising  his  head. 
'  I'll  so  far  depart  from  my  rule  as  to  tell  you  one  thing — 
whosoever  killed  Jcntham,  it  was  not  Bishop  Pendle.' 

Cargrim  grew  red  and  angry.  '  I  tell  you  it  was ! '  he 
almost  shouted,  although  this  conversation  took  place  in  a 
quiet  corner  near  the  cathedral,  and  thereby  required 
prudent  speech  and  demeanour.  '  Didn't  Dr  Pendle  meet 
Jentham  on  the  common?' 

'  We  presume  so,  sir,  but  as  yet  we  have  no  proof  jrf  the 
meeting.' 

346 


Mr  Baltic  on  the  Trail 

'  At  least  you  know  that  he  paid  Jentham  two  hundred 
pounds.' 

'Perhaps  he  did;  maybe  he  didn't,'  returned  Baltic, 
quietly.  *He  certainly  drew  out  that  amount  from  the 
Ophir  Bank,  but,  not  having  traced  the  notes,  I  can't  say 
if  he  paid  it  to  the  man.' 

*  But  I  am  sure  he  did,'  insisted  Cargrim,  still  angry. 

'  In  that  case,  sir,  why  ask  me  for  my  opinion  ? '  replied 
the  imperturbable  Baltic. 

If  Mr  Cargrim  had  not  been  a  clergyman,  he  would  have 
sworn  at  the  complacent  demeanour  of  the  agent,  and  even 
as  it  was  he  felt  inclined  to  risk  a  relieving  oath  or  two. 
But  knowing  Baltic's  religious  temperament,  he  was  wise 
enough  not  to  lay  himself  open  to  further  rebuke ;  so  he 
turned  the  matter  ofif  with  a  laugh,  and  observed  that  no 
doubt  Mr  Baltic  knew  his  own  business  best. 

'  I  think  I  can  safely  say  so,  sir,'  rejoined  Baltic,  gravely. 
•  By  the  way,  did  you  not  tell  me  that  Captain  George  Pendle 
was  on  the  common  when  the  murder  took  place  ? ' 

*  Yes,  George  was  there,  and  so  was  Gabriel.  Mrs  Pansey's 
page  saw  them  both.' 

'And  where  is  Captain  Pendle  now,  sir?' 

*At  Wincaster  with  his  regiment;  but  the  bishop  has 
sent  for  him  to  come  to  Beorminster,  so  I  expect  he  will 
be  here  within  the  week.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  that,  Mr  Cargrim,  as  I  wish  to  ask  Captain 
Pendle  a  few  questions.' 

'  Do  you  suspect  him  ? ' 

'  I  can't  rightly  say,  sir,'  answered  Baltic,  wiping  his  face 
with  the  red  bandanna,  '  Later  on  I  may  form  an  opinion. 
Mr  Gabriel  Pendle  comes  to  The  Derby  Winner  sometimes, 
I  see.' 

'  Yes ;  he  is  in  love  with  the  barmaid  there.' 

Baltic  looked  up  sharply.     * Mosk's  daughter,  sir?' 

'The  same.     He  wants  to  marry  Bell  Mosk.' 

'Does — he — indeed?'  drawled  the  agent,  flicking  his 
thumb  nail  against  his  teeth.  'Well,  Mr  Cargrim,  he 
might  do  worse.  There  is  a  lot  of  good  in  that  young 
woWn,  sir.  Mr  Gabriel  Pendle  has  lately  returned  from 
abroad,  I  hear.' 

'  Yes,  from  Nauheira.' 

247 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  That  is  in  Germany,  I  take  it,  sir.  Did  he  travel  on  a 
Cook's  ticket,  do  you  know  ? ' 

'  I  believe  he  did.' 

'  Oh  !  humph  !  I'll  say  good-bye,  then,  Mr  Cargrim, 
for  the  present,  I  shall  see  you  when  I  return  from 
London.' 

'Are  you  going  to  ask  about  Gabriel's  ticket  at  Cook's?' 

'There's  no  telling,  sir.     I  may  look  in. 

'  Do  you  think  that  Gab — ' 

•  I  think  nothing  as  yet,  Mr  Cargrim  ;  when  I  do,  111 
tell  you  my  thoughts.  Good-day,  sir !  God  bless  you  ! ' 
And  Baltic,  with  a  satisfied  expression  on  his  face,  rolled 
away  in  a  nautical  manner. 

'  God  bless  me  indeed  ! '  muttered  Cargrim,  in  much  dis- 
pleasure, for  neither  the  speech  nor  the  manner  of  the  man 
pleased  him.  '  Ugh  1  I  wish  Baltic  would  stick  to  either 
religion  or  business.  At  present  he  is  a  kind  of  moral 
hermaphrodite,  good  for  neither  one  thing  nor  another. 
I  wonder  if  he  suspects  the  bishop  or  his  two  sons  ?  I 
don't  believe  Dr  Pendle  is  innocent ;  but  if  he  is,  either 
George  or  Gabriel  is  guilty.  Well,  if  that  is  so,  I'll  still  be 
able  to  make  the  bishop  give  me  Heathcroft.  He  will 
rather  do  that  than  see  one  of  his  sons  hanged  and  the 
name  disgraced.  Still,  I  hope  Baltic  will  bring  home  the 
crime  to  his  lordship.' 

With  this  amiable  wish,  Mr  Cargrim  quickened  his  pace 
to  catch  up  with  Miss  Whichello,  whom  he  saw  tripping 
across  the  square  towards  the  Jenny  Wren  house.  The 
little  old  lady  looked  rosy  and  complacent,  at  peace  with 
herself  and  the  whole  of  Beorminster.  Nevertheless,  her 
expression  chmged  when  she  saw  Mr  Cargrim  sliding  grace- 
fully towards  her,  and  she  received  him  with  marked  cold- 
ness. As  yet  she  had  not  forgiven  him  for  his  unauthorised 
interference  on  behalf  of  Mrs  Pansey.  Cargrim  was  quick 
to  observe  her  l>uckram  civility,  but  diplomatically  took  no 
notice  of  its  frigidity.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  more  gush- 
ing and  more  expansive  than  ever. 

'A  happy  meeting,  my  dear  lady,'  he  said,  with  a  beaming 
glance.  '  Had  I  not  met  you,  I  should  have  called  to  see 
you  as  the  bearer  of  good  news.' 

'Really!'  replied  Miss  Whichello,  drily.     'That  will  be 

248 


Mr  Baltic  on  the  Trail 

a  relief  from  hearing  bad  news,  Mr  Cargrim.  I  have  had 
sufficient  trouble  of  late.' 

'  Ah ! '  sighed  the  chaplain,  falling  into  his  professional 
drawl,  '  how  true  is  the  saying  of  Job,  "  Man  is  born — " ' 

'  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  Job,'  interrupted  Miss 
Whichello,  crossly.  'He  is  the  greatest  bore  of  all  the 
patriarchs.' 

'  Job,  dear  lady,  was  not  a  patriarch.' 

'  Nevertheless,  he  is  a  bore,  Mr  Cargrim.  What  is  your 
good  news  ? ' 

'Captain  Pendle  is  coming  to  Beorminster  this  week. 
Miss  Whichello.' 

'Oh,'  said  the  little  old  lady,  with  a  satirical  smile,  'you 
are  a  day  after  the  fair,  Mr  Cargrim.  I  heard  that  news 
this  morning.' 

'  Indeed  1  But  the  bishop  only  sent  for  Captain  Pendle 
yesterday.' 

•Quite  so  J  and  Miss  Arden  received  a  telegram  from 
Captain  Pendle  this  morning.' 

*  Ah  !  Miss  V/hichello,  young  love !  young  love ! ' 

The  little  lady  could  have  shaken  Cargrim  for  the  smirk 
with  which  he  made  this  remark.  However,  she  restrained 
her  very  natural  impulse,  and  merely  remarked  —  rather 
irrelevantly,  it  must  be  confessed — that  if  two  young  and 
handsome  people  in  love  with  one  another  were  not  happy 
in  their  first  blush  of  passion  they  never  would  be. 

•  No  doubt,  dear  lady.  I  only  trust  that  such  happiness 
may  last.     But  there  is  no  sky  without  a  cloud.' 

*  And  there  is  no  bee  without  a  sting,  and  no  rose  with- 
out a  thorn.  I  know  all  those  consoling  proverbs,  Mr 
Cargrim,  but  they  don't  apply  to  my  turtle-doves.' 

Cargrim  rubbed  his  hands  softly  together.  'Long  may 
you  continue  to  think  so,  my  dear  lady,'  said  he,  with  a  sad 
look. 

'What  do  you  mean,  sir? 'asked  Miss  Whichello,  sharply. 

•  I  mean  that  it  is  as  well  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst,' 
said  Cargrim,  in  his  blandest  manner.  '  The  course  of  true 
love — but  you  are  weary  of  such  trite  sayings.  Good-day, 
Miss  Whichello  !  *  He  raised  his  hat  and  turned  away. 
'One  last  proverb  —  Joy  in  the  morning  means  grief  at 
night.' 

17  249 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

When  Mr  Cargrim  walked  away  briskly  after  delivering 
this  Parthian  shaft,  Miss  Whichello  stood  looking  after  him 
with  an  expression  of  nervous  worry  on  her  rosy  face.  She 
had  her  own  reasons  to  apprehend  trouble  in  connection 
with  the  engagement,  and  although  these  were  unknown  to 
the  chaplain,  his  chance  arrow  had  hit  the  mark.  The 
thoughts  of  the  little  old  lady  at  once  reverted  to  the  con- 
versation with  the  bishop  at  the  garden-party. 

'  Mrs  Pansey  again,'  thought  Miss  Whichello,  resuming 
her  walk  at  a  slower  pace.  '  I  shall  have  to  call  on  her, 
and  appeal  either  to  her  fears  or  her  charity,  otherwise  she 
may  cause  trouble.' 

In  the  meantime,  Mr  Baltic,  proceeding  in  his  grave  way 
towards  Eastgate,  had  fallen  in  with  Gabriel  coming  from 
The  Derby  Winner.  As  yet  the  two  had  never  met,  and 
save  the  name,  young  Pendle  knew  nothing  about  the  ex- 
sailor.  Nevertheless,  when  face  to  face  with  him,  he  re- 
cognised the  man  at  once  as  a  private  inquiry  agent  whom 
he  had  once  spoken  to  in  Whitechapel.  The  knowledge  of 
his  father's  secret,  of  Jentham's  murder  and  of  this  stranger's 
profession  mingled  confusedly  in  Gabriel's  head,  and  his 
heart  knocked  at  his  ribs  for  very  fear. 

'  I  met  you  in  London  some  years  ago,'  he  said  nervously. 

•  Yes,  Mr  Pendle ;  but  then  I  did  not  know  your  name, 
nor  did  you  know  mine.* 

'  How  did  you  recognise  me  ? '  asked  Gabriel. 

'  I  have  a  good  memory  for  faces,  sir,'  returned  Baltic, 
*  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  Sir  Harry  Brace  pointed  you  out 
to  me.' 

'  Sir  Har — oh,  then  you  are  Baltic  ! ' 

'  At  your  service,  Mr  Pendle.  I  am  down  here  on 
business.' 

'  I  know  all  about  it,'  replied  Gabriel,  recovering  his 
nerve  with  the  knowledge  of  the  man's  name  and  inclina- 
tion to  side  with  the  bishop. 

'  Indeed,  sir  !     And  who  told  you  about  it  ?  ' 

*  Sir  Harry  told  Dr  Graham,  who  informed  my  father, 
•who  spoke  to  me.' 

'  Oh  ! '     Baltic  looked  seriously  at  the  curate's  pale  face. 
'  Then  the  bishop  knows  that  I  am  an  inquiry  agent.' 
'  He  does,  Mr  Baltic.     And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  he  if 
250 


Mr  Baltic  on  the  Trail 

not  at  all  pleased  that  you  presented  yourself  in  our  city 
as  a  missionary.' 

'I  am  a  missionary,'  answered  the  ex-sailor,  quietly.  'I 
explained  as  much  to  Sir  Hairy,  but  it  would  seem  that  he 
has  told  the  worst  and  kept  back  the  best.' 

*  I  don't  understand,'  said  the  curate,  much  bewildered. 
'Sir,  it  would  take  too  long  for  me  to  explain  why  I  call 

myself  a  missionary,  but  you  can  rest  assured  that  I  am  not 
sailing  under  false  colours.  As  it  is,  you  know  me  as  an 
agent ;  and  you  know  also  my  purpose  in  coming  here.' 

'  Yes  !     I  know  that  you  are  investigating  the  mur — ' 

'We  are  in  the  street,  sir,' interrupted  Baltic,  with  a  glance 
at  passers-by ;  '  it  is  as  well  to  be  discreet.  One  moment.' 
He  led  Gabriel  into  a  quiet  alley,  comparatively  free  from 
listeners.  'This  is  a  rather  rough  sort  of  neighbourhood, 
sir.' 

'Rough  certainly,  but  not  dangerous,'  replied  Gabriel, 
puzzled  by  the  remark. 

'  Don't  you  carry  a  pistol,  Mr  Pendle  ? ' 

'  No  !     Why  should  I  ? ' 

'Why  indeed  ?  If  the  Gospel  is  not  a  protection  enough,  no 
earthly  arms  will  prevail  Your  name  is  Gabriel,  I  think, 
sir.' 

'  Yes  !  Gabriel  Pendle ;  but  I  don't  see — ' 

•  I'm  coming  to  an  explanation,  sir.  G.  P.'  mused  Baltic 
— '  same  initials  as  those  of  your  father  and  brother,  eh,  Mr 
Pendle  ? ' 

'  Certainly.  Both  the  bishop  and  my  brother  are  named 
George.' 

'  G.  P.  all  three,'  said  Baltic,  with  a  nod,  '  Do  you  travel 
abroad  with  a  Cook's  ticket,  sir  ? ' 

'  Usually  I     Why  do  you — ' 

'A  through  ticket  to — say  Nauheim — is  about  three 
pounds,  I  believe?' 

'  I  paid  that  for  mine,  Mr  Baltic.  May  I  ask  why  you 
question  me  in  this  manner  ? '  demanded  Gabriel,  irritably. 

Baltic  tapped  Gabriel's  chest  three  times  with  his  fore- 
finger. 'For  your  own  safety,  Mr  Pendle.  Good-day, 
sirl* 


17  sSi 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

THE    INITIALS 

As  has  before  been  stated,  Dr  Graham  had  another  conversa- 
tion with  his  persecuted  friend,  in  which  he  advised  him  to 
tolerate  the  presence  of  Cargrim  until  Baltic  captured  the 
actual  criminal.  It  was  also  at  this  second  interview  that 
the  bishop  asked  Graham  if  he  should  tell  George  the  truth. 
This  question  the  little  doctor  answered  promptly  in  the 
negative. 

'For  what  is  the  use  of  telling  him?'  said  he,  argu- 
mentatively;  'doing  so  will  make  you  uncomfortable  and 
George  very  unhappy.' 

'  But  George  must  learn  the  truth  sooner  or  later.* 

'  I  don't  see  that  it  is  necessary  to  inform  him  of  it  at  all,' 
retorted  Graham,  obstinately,  'and  at  all  events  you  need 
not  explain  until  forced  to  do  so.  One  thing  at  a  time, 
bishop.  At  present  your  task  is  to  baffle  Cargrim  and 
kick  the  scoundrel  out  of  the  house  when  the  murderer  is 
found.  Then  we  can  discuss  the  matter  of  the  marriage 
with  Mrs  Pendle.' 

'  Graham  ! ' — the  bishop's  utterance  of  the  name  was  like 
a  cry  of  pain — '  I  cannot — I  dare  not  tell  Amy  ! ' 

'  You  m  St,  Pendle,  since  she  is  the  principal  person  con- 
cerned in  the  matter.  You  know  how  Gabriel  learned  the 
truth  from  her  casual  description  of  her  first  husband. 
Well,  when  Mrs  Pendle  returns  to  Beorminster,  she  may — I 
don't  say  that  she  will,  mind  you — but  she  may  speak  of 
Krant  again,  since,  so  far  as  she  is  concerned,  there  is  no 
need  for  her  to  keep  the  fact  of  her  first  marriage  secret.' 

'Except  that  she  may  not  wish  to  recall  unhappy  days,' 
put  in  the  bishop,  softly.  *  Indeed,  I  wonder  that  Amy 
could  bring  herself  to  speak  of  Krant  to  her  son  and 
mine.' 

252 


Tke  Initials 

'Women,  my  friend,  do  and  say  things  at  which 
they  wonder  themselves,'  said  the  misogynist,  cynically; 
'  probably  Mrs  Pendle  acted  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment 
and  regretted  it  immediately  the  words  were  out  of  her 
mouth.  Still,  she  may  describe  Krant  again  when  she  comes 
back,  and  her  listener  may  be  as  clever  as  Gabriel  was  in 
putting  two  and  two  together,  and  connecting  your  wife's 
first  husband  with  Krant.  Should  such  a  thing  occur — and 
it  might  occur — your  secret  would  become  the  common 
property  of  this  scandalmongering  place,  and  your  last  condi- 
tion would  be  worse  than  your  first.  Also,'  continued  Graham, 
with  the  air  of  a  person  clinching  an  argument,  '  if  you  and 
Mrs  Pendle  are  to  part,  my  poor  friend,  she  must  be  told 
the  reason  for  such  separation.' 

*  Part ! '  echoed  the  bishop,  indignantly.  *  My  dear  Amy 
and  I  shall  never  part,  doctor.  I  wonder  that  you  can 
suggest  such  a  thing.  Now  that  Krant  is  dead  beyond  all 
doubt,  I  shall  marry  his  widow  at  once.' 

'  Quite  so,  and  quite  right,'  assented  Graham,  emphatic- 
ally; 'but  in  that  case,  as  you  can  see  for  yourself,  you 
nmst  tell  her  that  the  first  marriage  is  null  and  void,  so 
as  to  account  for  the  necessity  of  the  second  ceremony.' 
The  doctor  paused  and  reflected.  '  Old  scatterbrain  that 
I  am,'  said  he,  with  a  shrug,  '  I  quite  forgot  that  way  out 
of  the  difficulty.  A  second  marriage !  Of  course !  and 
there  is  your  riddle  solved.' 

*  No  doubt,  so  far  as  Amy  and  I  are  concerned,'  said 
Pendle,  gloomily,  *  but  so  late  a  ceremony  will  not  make 
my  children  legitimate.  In  England,  marriage  is  not  a 
retrospective  act.' 

'They  manage  these  things  better  in  France,'  opined 
Graham,  in  the  manner  of  Sterne ;  *  there  a  man  can 
legitimise  his  children  born  out  of  wedlock  if  he  so  chooses. 
There  was  a  talk  of  modifying  the  English  Act  in  the  same 
way ;  but,  of  course,  the  very  nice  people  with  nasty  ideas 
shrieked  out  in  their  usual  pig-headed  style  about  legalised 
immorality.  However,'  pursued  the  doctor,  in  a  more 
cheerful  tone,  '  I  do  not  see  that  you  need  worry  yourself 
on  that  point,  bishop.  You  can  depend  upon  Gabriel  and 
me  holding  our  tongues ;  you  need  not  tell  Lucy  or  George, 
and  when  you  marry  your  wife  for  the  second  time,  all 

253 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

things  can  go  on  as  before.     "  What  the  eye  does  not  see, 

the  heart  does  not  grieve  at,"  you  know.' 

'  But  my  eye  sees,  and  my  heart  grieves,'  groaned  the 
bishop. 

'  Pish !  don't  make  an  inquisition  of  your  conscience, 
Pendle.  You  have  done  no  wrong;  hke  greatness,  evil 
has  been  thrust  upon  you.' 

'  I  am  certainly  an  innocent  sinner,  Graham.' 

•  Of  course  you  are ;  but  now  that  we  have  found  the 
remedy,  that  is  all  over  and  done  with.  Wait  till  Jentham's 
murderer  is  found,  then  turn  Cargrim  out  of  doors,  marry 
Mrs  Kr;:at  in  some  out-of-thev.ay  parish,  and  make  a 
fresh  will  in  favour  of  your  children.  There  you  are, 
bishop  !     Don't  worry  any  more  about  the  matter.' 

'You  don't  think  that  I  should  tell  Brace  that—?' 

'I  certainly  don't  think  that  you  should  disgrace  your 
daughter  in  the  eyes  of  her  future  husband,'  retorted  the 
doctor,  hotly;  'marry  your  wife  and  hold  your  tongue. 
Even  the  Recording  Angel  can  take  no  note  of  so  obviously 
just  a  course.' 

'  I  think  you  are  right,  Graham,'  said  the  bishop,  shaking 
his  friend's  hand  with  an  expression  of  relief.  '  In  justice  to 
my  children,  I  must  be  silent.     I  shall  act  as  you  suggest.' 

'  Then  that  being  so,  you  are  a  man  again,'  said  Graham, 
jocularly,  'and  now  you  can  send  for  George  to  pay  you 
a  visit.' 

'  Do  you  think  there  is  any  necessity,  Graham  ?  The 
sight  of  him — ' 

'  Will  do  you  good,  Pendle.  Don't  martyrise  yourself 
and  look  on  your  children  as  so  many  visible  evidences 
of  sin.  Bosh  !  I  tell  you,  bosh  ! '  cried  the  doctor,  vigorously 
if  ungallantly.  'Send  for  (Jeorge,  send  for  Mrs  Pendle 
and  Lucy,  and  throw  all  these  morbid  ideas  to  the  wind. 
If  you  do  not,'  added  Graham,  raising  a  threatening  finger, 
'  I  shall  write  out  a  certificate  for  the  transfer  of  the 
cleverest  bishop  in  England  to  a  lunatic  asylum.' 

'  Well,  well,  I  won't  risk  that,'  said  the  bishop,  smiling. 
'George  shall  come  back  at  once.' 

'And  all  will  be  eas  and  gaiters,  to  quote  the  immortal 
Boz.  Good-day,  bishop  1  I  have  prescribed  your  medicine  j 
see  that  you  take  it.' 

254 


The  Initials 

*  You  are  a  tonic  in  yourself,  Graham.' 

'  All  men  of  sense  are,  Pendle.  They  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  the  oxygen  in  the  moral  atmosphere.  If  it  wasn't 
for  my  common  sense,  bisliop,'  said  the  doctor,  with  a 
twinkle,  '  I  believe  I  should  be  weak  enough  to  come  and 
hear  you  preach.' 

Dr  Pendle  laughed.  'I  am  afraid  the  age  of  miracles 
is  past,  my  friend.  As  a  bishop,  I  should  reprove  you, 
but—' 

•  But,  as  a  good,  sensible  fellow,  you'll  take  my  advice. 
Well,  well,  bishop,  I  have  had  more  obstinate  patients  than 
my  college  chum.  Good-day,  good  day,'  and  the  little 
doctor  skipped  out  of  the  library  with  a  gay  look  and  a 
merry  nod,  leaving  the  bishop  relieved  and  smiliiig,  and 
devoudy  thankful  for  the  solution  of  his  life's  riddle.  At 
that  moment  the  noble  verse  of  the  Psalmist  was  in  his 
mind  and  upon  his  lips—'  God  is  our  refuge  and  our 
strength :  a  very  present  help  in  trouble.'  Bishop  Pendle 
was  proving  the  truth  of  that  text. 

So  the  exiled  lover  was  permitted  to  return  to  Beormin- 
ster,  and  very  pleased  he  was  to  find  himself  once  more 
in  the  vicinity  of  his  beloved.  After  congratuladng  the 
bishop  on  his  recovered  cheerfulness  and  placidity,  George 
brought  forward  the  name  of  Mab,  and  was  pleased  to  find 
that  his  father  was  by  no  means  so  opposed  to  the  match 
as  formerly.  Dr  Pendle  admitted  again  that  Mab  was  a 
singularly  charming  young  lady,  and  that  his  son  might 
do  worse  than  marry  her.  I^ate  events  had  humbled  the 
bishop's  pride  considerably ;  and  the  knowledge  that  George 
was  nameless,  induced  him  to  consider  Miss  Arden  more 
favourably  as  a  wife  for  the  young  man.  She  was  at  least 
a  lady,  and  not  a  barmaid  like  Bell  Mosk ;  so  the  painful 
fact  of  Gabriel  setting  his  begirt  so  low  made  George's 
superior  choice  quite  a  brilliant  match  in  compaiison.  On 
these  grounds,  the  bishop  intimated  to  Captain  Pendle 
that,  on  consideration,  he  was  disposed  to  overlook  the 
rumours  about  Miss  Arden's  disreputable  father  and  accept 
her  as  a  daughter-in-law.  It  was  with  this  joyful  news  that 
George,  glowing  and  eager,  as  a  lover  should  be,  made  his 
appearance  the  next  morning  at  the  Jenny  Wren  house. 

•Thank    God    the    bishop    is    reasonable,'   cried    Miss 

2S5 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

Whichello,  when  George  explained  the  new  position.  *! 
knew  that  Mab  would  L;ain  his  heart  in  the  end.' 

'She  gained  mine  in  the  beginninc^,'  said  Captain  George, 
fondly,  'and  that,  after  all,  is  the  principal  thing.' 

'  What !  your  own  heart,  egotist  I  Docs  mine  then  count 
for  nothing  ?  ' 

'Oh!'  said  George,  slipping  his  arm  round  her  waist, 
•if  we  begin  on  that  subject,  my  litany  will  be  as  long  as 
the  Athanasian  Creed,  and  quite  as  devout.' 

'Captain  Pendle  !  'exclaimed  Miss  VVnichello,  scandalised 
both  by  embrace  and  speech — both  rather  trying  to  a 
religious  spinster. 

'Miss  Whichello,'  mimicked  the  gay  lover,  *am  I  not 
to  be  received  into  the  family  under  the  name  of  George?* 

'That  depends  on  your  behaviour.  Captain  Pendle.  But 
I  am  both  pleased  and  relieved  that  the  bishop  consents 
to  the  marriage.' 

'Aunty!'  cried  Mab,  reddening  a  trifle,  'don't  talk  ai 
though  it  were  a  favour.  I  do  not  look  upon  myself  as 
worthless,  by  any  means.' 

'  Worthless  ! '  echoed  George,  gaily ;  '  then  is  gold  mere 
dross,  and  diamonds  but  pet)bles.  You  are  the  beauty  c.i 
the  universe,  my  darling,  and  I  your  lowest  slave.'  He 
threw  himself  at  her  feet.  '  Set  your  pretty  foot  on  my  neck, 
my  queen  ! ' 

'  Captain  Pendle,'  said  Miss  ^Vhichello,  striving  to  stifie 
a  laugh,  'if  you  don't  get  up  and  behave  properly  I  shall 
leave  the  room.' 

'  If  you  do,  aunty,  he  will  get  worse,'  smiled  Mnb,  ruffling 
what  the  barber  had  left  of  her  lover's  hair.  'Get  up  at 
once,  you — you  mad  Romeo.' 

George  rose  obediently,  and  dusted  his  knees.  •  Juliet, 
I  obey,'  said  he,  tragically ;  '  but  no,  you  are  not  Juliet  of 
the  garden ;  you  are  Cleopatra !  Semiramis  !  the  most  im- 
perious and  queenly  of  women.  Where  did  you  get  your 
rich  eastern  beauty  from,  Mab?  What  are  you,  an  Arabian 
princess,  doing  in  our  cold  grey  West  ?  You  are  like  some 
dark-browed  queen  I  A  daughter  of  Bohemia  I  A  Romany 
sorceress ! ' 

Mab  laughed,  but  Miss  Whichello  heaved  a  quick,  im- 
patient sigh,  as  though  these  eastern  comparisons  annoyed 

S36 


The  Initials 

her.  George  was  unconsciously  making  remarks  which  cut 
her  to  the  heart ;  and  almost  unable  to  control  her  feelings, 
she  muttered  some  excuse  and  glided  hastily  from  the 
room.  With  the  inherent  selfishness  of  love,  neither  George 
nor  Mab  paid  any  attention  to  her  emotion  or  departure, 
but  whispered  and  smiled  and  caressed  one  another,  well 
pleased  at  their  sweet  solitude.  George  spent  one  golden 
hour  in  paradise,  then  unwillingly  tore  himself  away.  Only 
Shakespeare  could  have  done  justice  to  the  passion  of  their 
parting.  Kisses  and  sighs,  last  looks,  final  handclasps,  and 
then  George  in  the  sunshine  of  the  square,  with  Mab  waving 
her  handkerchief  from  the  open  casement.  But,  alas  !  work- 
aday prose  always  succeeds  Arcadian  rhyme,  and  with  the 
sinking  sun  dies  the  glory  of  the  day. 

With  his  mind  hanging  betwixt  a  mental  heaven  and 
earth,  after  the  similitude  of  Mahomet's  cofifin,  George 
walked  slowly  down  the  street,  until  he  was  brought  like 
a  shot  eagle  to  the  ground  by  a  touch  on  the  shoulder. 
Now,  as  there  is  nothing  more  annoying  than  such  a  bailiffs 
salute,  George  wheeled  round  with  some  vigorous  language 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  but  did  not  use  it  when  he  found 
himself  facing  Sir  Harry  Brace. 

*0h,  it's  you!'  said  Captain  Pendle,  lamely.  'Well, 
with  your  experience,  you  should  know  better  than  to  pull 
up  a  fellow  unawares.' 

•  You  talk  in  riddles,  my  good  George,'  said  Harry,  star- 
ing, as  well  he  might,  at  this  not  very  coherent  speech. 

'I  have  just  left  Miss  Arden,'  explained  George,  quite 
unabashed,  for  he  did  not  care  if  the  whole  world  knew  of 
his  love. 

*0h,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  understand,'  replied  Brace, 
with  a  broad  smile ;  '  but  you  must  excuse  me,  old  chap. 
I  am — I  am  out  of  practice  lately,  you  see.  "  My  love 
she  is  in  Germanee,"  as  the  old  song  says.  I  wish  to  speak 
with  you.' 

•  All  right     Where  shall  we  go  ? ' 

•  To  the  club.     I  must  see  you  privately.* 

The  Beorminster  Club  was  just  a  short  distance  down 

the  street,  so  George  followed  Harry  into  its  hospitable 

portals  and   finally  accepted  a  comfortable  chair   in  the 

smoking-room,  which,  luckily  for  the   purpose   of  Brace, 

R  257 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

was  empty  at  that  hour.  The  two  young  men  each 
ordered  a  cool  hock-and-soda  and  lighted  two  very 
excellent  cigarettes  which  came  out  of  the  pocket  of 
extravagant  George.  Then  they  began  to  talk,  and 
Harry  opened  the  conversation  with  a  question. 

'George,'  he  said,  with  a  serious  look  on  his  usually 
merry  face,  'were  you  on  Southberry  Heath  on  the  night 
that  poor  devil  was  murdered  ? ' 

'  Oh,  yes,'  replied  Captain  Pendle,  with  some  wonder  at 
the  question.  •  I  rode  over  to  the  gipsy  camp  to  buy  a 
particular  ring  from  Mother  Jael.' 

'For  Miss  Arden,  I  suppose?' 

'Yes;  I  wished  for  a  necromantic  symbol  of  our  en- 
gagement.' 

'  Did  you  hear  or  see  anything  of  the  murder  ?  ' 

'Good  Lord,  no!'  cried  the  stariled  George,  sitting  up 
straight.  '  I  should  have  been  at  the  inquest  had  1  seen 
the  act,  or  even  heard  the  shot.' 

'  Did  you  carry  a  pistol  with  you  on  that  night?' 

'  As  I  wasn't  riding  through  Central  Africa,  I  did  not 
What  is  the  meaning  of  these  mysterious  questions?' 

Brace  answered  this  query  by  slipping  his  hand  into  his 
breast-pocket  and  producing  therefrom  a  neat  little  pistol, 
toy-like,  but  deadly  enough  in  the  hand  of  a  good  marks- 
man. '  Is  this  yours?'  he  asked,  holding  it  out  for  Captain 
Pendle's  inspection. 

'  Certainly  it  is,'  said  George,  handling  the  weapon  ;  '  here 
are  my  initials  on  the  butt.     Where  did  you  get  this?' 

'  It  was  found  by  Mother  Jael  near  the  spot  where 
Jentham  was  murdered.' 

Captain  Pendle  clapped  down  the  pistol  on  the  table  with 
an  ejaculation  of  amazement.  'Was  he  shot  with  this, 
Harry  ? ' 

'Without  doubt!'  replied  Brace,  gravely.  'Therefore, 
as  it  is  your  property,  I  wish  to  know  how  it  came  to  be 
used  for  that  purpose.' 

'  Great  Scott,  Brace  !  you  don't  think  that  I  killed  the 
blackguard  ? ' 

'  I  think  nothing  so  ridiculous,'  protested  Sir  Harry, 
testily. 

•  You  talk  as  if  you  did,  though,'  retorted  George,  smartly. 

258 


The  Initials 

'  I  thrashed  that  Jentham  beast  for  insulting  Mab,  but  I 
didn't  shoot  him.' 

'  But  the  pistol  is  yours.'  ' 

•  I  admit  that,  but — Good  Lord  ! '  cried  Captain  Pendle, 
starting  to  his  feet. 

'  What  now  ? '  asked  Brace,  turning  pale  and  cold  on  the 
instant 

'  Gabriel !  Gabriel !     I — I  gave  this  pistol  to  him.' 
'  You  gave  this  pistol  to  Gabriel ?      When?     Where?' 

•  In  London,'  explained  George,  rapidly.  '  When  he  was 
in  Whitechapel  I  knew  that  he  went  among  a  lot  of  roughs 
and  thieves,  so  I  insisted  that  he  should  carry  this  pistol  for 
his  protection.  He  was  unwilling  to  do  so  at  first,  but  in 
the  end  I  persuaded  him  to  slip  it  into  his  pocket.  I  have 
not  seen  it  from  that  day  to  this.' 

'  And  it  was  found  near  Jentham's  corpse/  said  Brace, 
with  a  groan. 

The  two  young  men  looked  at  one  another  in  horrified 
silence,  the  same  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  each.  The  pistol 
had  been  in  the  possession  of  Gabriel ;  and  Gabriel  on  the 
night  of  the  murder  had  been  in  the  vicinity  of  the  crime. 

'It — it  is  impossible,'  whispered  George,  almost  inaudibly, 
•Gabriel  can  explaai.' 

•  Gabriel  must  explain,'  said  Brace,  firmly  ;  '  it  is  a  matter 
of  life  and  death ! ' 


3S9 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

MR    BALTIC    EXPLAINS    HIMSELF 

It  was  Miss  Whichello,  who,  on  the  statement  of  Mrs 
Pansey  as  reported  by  Mr  Caij^'rim,  had  told  George  of  his 
brother's  presence  on  Southberry  Heath  at  tne  time  of 
Jentham's  murder.  She  had  casually  mentioned  the  fact 
during  an  idle  conversation;  but  never  for  one  moment 
had  she  dreamed  of  connecting  Gabriel  with  so  atrocious  a 
crime.  Nor  indeed  did  Captain  Pendle,  until  the  fact  was 
rudely  and  unexpectedly  brought  home  to  him  by  the 
production  of  the  pistol.  Nevertheless,  despite  this  material 
evidence,  he  vehemently  refused  to  credit  that  so  gentle  a 
being  as  Gabriel  had  slain  a  fellow-creature  deliberately 
and  in  cold  blood,  particularly  as  on  the  face  of  it  no 
reason  could  be  assigned  for  so  hazardous  an  act.  The 
curate,  in  his  loyal  brother's  opinion,  was  neither  a  vindictive 
fool  nor  an  aimless  murderer. 

With  this  latter  opinion  Sir  Harry  very  heartily  agreed. 
He  had  the  highest  respect  for  Gabriel  as  a  man  and  a 
priest,  and  could  not  believe  that  he  had  wantonly  com- 
mitted a  brutal  crime,  so  repulsive  to  his  benign  nature,  so 
contrary  to  the  purity  and  teachings  of  his  life.  He  was 
quite  satisfied  that  the  young  man  both  could,  and  would, 
explain  how  the  pistol  had  passed  out  of  his  possession ; 
but  he  did  not  seek  the  explanation  himself.  Baltic, 
previous  to  his  departure  for  London,  had  made  Brace 
promise  to  question  Captain  Pendle  about  the  pistol,  and 
report  to  him  the  result  of  such  conversation.  Now  that 
the  pistol  was  proved  to  have  been  in  the  keeping  of 
Gabriel,  the  baronet  knew  very  well  that  Baltic  would 
prefer  to  question  so  important  a  witness  himself.  There- 
fore, while  waiting  for  the  agent's  return,  he  not  only  himself 

260 


Mr  Baltic  Explains  Himself 

refrained  from  seeing  Gabriel,  but  persuaded  George  not 
to  do  so. 

•  Your  questions  will  only  do  more  harm  than  good ! ' 
expostulated  Brace,  'as  you  have  neither  the  trained 
capacity  nor  the  experience  to  examine  into  the  matter. 
Baltic  returns  to-morrow,  and  as  I  have  every  faith  in  his 
judgment  and  discretion,  it  will  be  much  better  to  let  him 
handle  it.' 

♦Who  is  this  Baltic  you  talk  of  so  much?'  asked  the 
captain,  impatiently. 

*  He  is  a  private  inquiry  agent  who  is  trying  to  discover 
the  man  who  killed  Jentham.' 

'On  behalf  of  Tinkler,  I  suppose?' 

'He  is  working  with  Tinkler  in  the  matter,'  replied 
Brace,  evasively,  for  he  did  not  want  to  inform  George,  the 
rash  and  fiery,  of  his  father's  peril  and  Cargrim's  treachery. 

'  Baltic  is  a  London  detective,  no  doubt  ? ' 

•Yes,  his  brains  are  more  equal  than  Tinkler's  to  the 
task  of  solving  the  riddle.' 

'  He  won't  arrest  Gabriel,  I  hope,'  said  George,  anxiously. 

'Not  unless  he  is  absolutely  certain  that  Gabriel  com- 
mitted the  crime;  and  I  am  satisfied  that  he  will  never 
arrive  at  that  certainty.' 

'I-— should — think — not,'  cried  Captain  Pendle,  with 
disdain.  '  Gabriel,  poor  boy,  would  not  kill  a  fly,  let  alone 
a  man.  Still,  these  legal  bloodhounds  are  coarse  and 
unscrupulous.' 

'Baltic  is  not,  George.  He  is  quite  a  new  type  of 
detective,  and  works  rather  from  a  religious  than  a  judicial 
point  of  view.' 

'  I  never  heard  of  a  religious  detective  before,'  remarked 
George,  scornfully. 

'  Nor  I ;  it  is  a  new  departure,  and  I  am  not  sure  but 
that  it  is  a  good  one,  incongruous  as  it  may  seem.' 

'  Is  the  man  a  hypocrite  ? ' 

'  By  no  means.  He  is  thoroughly  in  earnest.  Here,  in 
public,  he  calls  himself  a  missionary.' 

'  Oh  !  oh  !  the  wolf  in  the  skin  of  a  sheep  ! ' 

'  Not  at  all.  The  man  is — .veil,  it  is  no  use  my  explain- 
ing, as  you  will  see  him  shortly,  and  then  can  judge  for 
yourself.     But  if  you  will  take  my  advice,  George,  you  will 

261 


The  Bishop s  Secret 

let  Baltic  figure  the  matter  out  on  his  own  slate,  as  the 
Americans  say.  Don't  mention  his  name  or  actual  bub>iness 
to  anyone.     Believe  me,  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about.' 

'Very  well,'  grumbled  George,  convinced  by  Harry's 
earnestness,  but  by  no  means  pleased  to  be  condemned  to 
an  interval  of  ignorance  and  inactivity.  '  I  shall  hold  my 
tongue  and  close  my  eyes.  But  you  agree  with  me  that 
Gabriel  did  not  kill  the  brute?' 

'  Of  course  !  From  the  first  I  never  had  any  doubts  on 
that  score.' 

Here  for  the  time  being  the  conversation  ended,  and 
George  went  his  way  to  play  the  part  of  a  careless  on- 
looker. But  for  his  promise,  he  would  have  warned 
Gabriel  of  the  danger  which  threatened  him,  and  probably 
have  complicated  matters  by  premature  anger.  Luckily  for 
all  things,  his  faith  in  Brace's  good  sense  was  strong  enough 
to  deter  him  from  so  rash  and  headlong  a  course ;  therefore, 
at  home  and  abroad,  he  assumed  a  gaiety  he  did  not  feel. 
So  here  in  the  episcopalian  palace  of  Beorminster  were 
three  people,  each  one  masking  his  real  feelings  in  inter- 
course with  the  others.  The  bishop,  his  son  and  his 
scheming  chaplain  were  actors  in  a  comedy  of  life  which 
— in  the  opinion  of  the  last — might  easily  end  up  as  a 
tragedy.  No  wonder  their  behaviour  was  constrained,  no 
wonder  they  avoided  one  another.  They  were  as  men 
living  over  a  powder  magazine  which  the  least  spark  would 
explode  with  thunderous  noise  and  damaging  effect. 

Baltic  was  the  deus  ex  machina  to  strike  the  spark  for 
ignition,  but  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  do  so.  Punctual  to 
his  promise  he  returned  to  Beorminster,  and  heard  Sir 
Harry's  report  about  the  pistol  with  grave  attention. 
Without  venturing  an  opinion  for  or  against  the  curate,  he 
asked  Sir  Harry  to  preserve  a  strict  silence  until  such  time 
as  he  gave  him  leave  to  speak,  and  afterwards  took  his  way 
to  Gabriel's  lodgings  in  the  lower  part  of  the  town.  'I'here 
he  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  young  Pendle  within  doors, 
and  after  a  lengthy  interview  with  him  on  matvers  con- 
nected with  the  crime,  he  again  sought  the  baronet.  A 
detailed  explanation  to  that  gentleman  resulted  in  a  visit 
of  both  to  Sir  Harry's  bank,  and  an  interesting  conversation 
with  its  manager.     When  Brace  and   Baltic  finally  found 

262 


Mr  Baltic  Explains  Himself 

themselves  on  the  pavement,  the  face  of  the  first  wore  an 
expression  of  exultation,  while  the  latter,  in  his  reticent  way, 
looked  soberly  satisfied.  Both  had  every  reason  for  these 
signs  of  triumph,  for  they  had  touched  the  highest  pinnacle 
of  success. 

' I  suppose  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it,  Baltic?' 

*  None  whatever,  Sir  Harry.  Every  link  in  the  chain  of 
evidence  is  complete.' 

'You  are  a  wonderful  man,  Baltic;  you  have  scored  off 
that  fool  of  a  Tinkler  in  a  very  neat  waj'.' 

'  The  inspector  is  no  fool  in  his  own  sphere,  sir,'  reproved 
the  serious  ex-sailor,  '  but  this  case  happened  to  be  beyond 
it.' 

'And  beyond  him  also,'  chuckled  the  baronet. 

'There  is  no  denying  that,  Sir  Harry.  However,  the 
man  is  useful  in  his  own  place,  and  having  done  my  part, 
I  shall  now  ask  him  to  do  his.' 

« What  is  his  task,  eh  ? ' 

'  To  procure  a  warrant  on  my  evidence.  The  man  must 
be  arrested  this  afternoon.' 

*  And  then,  Baltic  ? ' 

'Then,  sir,'  said  the  man,  solemnly,  *I  shall  be  no 
longer  an  agent,  but  a  missionary ;  and  in  my  own  poor 
way  I  shall  strive  to  bring  him  to  repentance.' 

'  After  bringing  him  to  the  gallows.  A  queer  way  of 
inducing  good,  Baltic' 

'  Whoso  loseth  all  gaineth  all,'  quoted  Baltic,  in  all  ear- 
nestness ;  '  my  mission  is  not  to  destroy  souls  but  to  sa\  e 
them.' 

'  Humph  !  you  destroy  the  material  part  for  the  salvation 
of  the  spiritual.  A  man  called  Torquemada  conducted  his 
religious  crusade  in  the  same  way  some  hundreds  of  years 
ago,  and  has  been  cursed  for  his  system  by  humanity  ever 
since.  Your  morality — or  rather  I  should  say  your  re- 
ligiosity— is  beyond  me,  Baltic' 

'■  Magfias  Veritas  et  praevalebii  f '  misquoted  Baltic, 
solemnly,  and,  touching  his  hat  roughly,  turned  away  to 
finish  the  work  he  felt  himself  called  upon  by  his  religious 
convictions  to  execute. 

Harry  looked  after  him  with  a  satirical  smile.  '  You 
filched  that  morsel  of  dog  Latin  out  of  the  end  of  the 

263 


The  Bishops  Secret 

English  dictionary,  my  friend,'  he  thought,  '  and  your  un- 
tutored mind  docs  not  apply  it  wiili  paiticular  relevancy 
Bat  1  see  that,  like  all  fanatics,  you  distort  texts  and  sayings 
into  fitting  your  own  peculiar  views.  Well,  well,  the  ends 
you  aim  at  are  right  enough,  no  doubt,  but  your  method  of 
reaching  them  is  as  queer  a  one  as  ever  came  under  my 
notice.  Go  your  ways,  'I'orquemada  Baltic,  thtre  are  the 
germs  of  a  mighty  intolerant  sect  in  your  kind  of  teaching, 
I  fear,'  and  in  his  turn  Sir  Harry  went  about  his  own  affairs. 

Inspector  "I'inkler,  more  purjile-faced  and  important  than 
ever,  sat  in  his  private  office,  twirling  his  thumbs  and  nod- 
ding his  head  for  lack  of  business  on  which  to  employ  his 
mighty  mind.  The  afternoon,  by  some  freak  of  the  sun 
which  had  to  do  with  his  solar  majesty's  unusual  spotty 
complexion,  was  exceptionally  hot  for  a  late  September 
day,  and  the  heat  made  Mr  Inspector  drowsy  and  indolent 
He  might  have  fallen  into  the  condition  of  an  official  sleep- 
ing beauty,  but  that  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door  roused  him 
sufficiently  to  bid  the  knocker  enter,  whereupon  a  well-fed 
policeman  presented  himself  with  the  information — dehvered 
in  a  sleepy,  beefy  voice — that  Mr  Baltic  wished  to  see  Mr 
Tinkler.  The  name  acted  like  a  douche  of  iced  water  on 
the  inspector,  and  he  sharply  ordered  the  visitor  to  be 
admitted  at  once.  In  another  minute  Baltic  was  in  the 
office,  saluting  the  head  of  the  Beorminster  police  in  his 
usual  grave  style. 

'  Ha,  Mr  Baltic,  sir ! '  rasped  out  Tinkler,  in  his  parade 
voice,  '  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  There  is  a  seat,  and  here 
am  I ;  both  at  your  service.' 

'  Thank  you,  Mr  Inspector,'  said  Baltic,  and,  taking  a 
seat,  carefully  covered  his  knees  with  the  red  bandanna, 
and  adjusted  his  straw  hat  on  top  of  it  according  to 
custom. 

•Well,  sir,  well,'  grunted  Mr  Inspector,  pompously,  'and 
how  does  your  little  affair  get  on  ? ' 

'  It  has  got  on  so  far,  sir,  that  I  have  come  to  ask  you  for 
a  warrant  of  arrest.' 

'  By  George  !  eh  !  what !  Have  you  found  him  ? '  roared 
Tinkler,  starting  back  with  an  incredulous  look. 

'  I  have  discovered  the  man  who  murdered  Jentham  ! 
Yes.' 

264 


Mr  Baltic  Explains  Himself 

*  Good  ! '  snapped  Tinkler,  trying  to  conceal  his  amazement 
by  a  reversion  to  his  abrupt  military  manner.     '  His  name  ? ' 

'I'll  tell  you  that  when'  I  have  related  my  evidence  in- 
criminating him.     It  is  as  well  to  be  orderly,  Mr  Inspector.' 

*  Certainly,  Mr  Baltic,  sir.  Order  is  at  the  base  of  all 
discipline.' 

*  I  should  rather  say  that  discipline  is  the  basis  of  order,' 
returned  Baltic,  with  a  dry  smile  ;  'however,  we  can  discuss 
that  question  later.  At  present  I  shall  detail  my  evidence 
against' — Mr  Inspector  leaned  eagerly  forward — 'against 
the  man  who  killed  Jentham.'  Mr  Inspector  threw  him- 
self back  with  a  disappointed  snort. 

*  'Tention  ! '  threw  out  Tinkler,  and  arranged  pen  and  ink 
and  paper  to  take  notes.     '  Now,  Mr  Baliic,  sir ! ' 

'  My  knowledge  of  the  man  Jentham,'  droned  Baltic,  in 
his  monotonous  voice,  *  begins  at  the  moment  I  was  in- 
formed by  Mr  Cargrim  that  he  called  at  the  palace  to  see 
Bishop  Pendle  a  few  days  before  he  met  with  his  violent 
end.  It  would  appear — although  of  this  I  am  not  abso- 
lutely certain— that  the  bishop  knew  Jentham  when  he 
occupied  a  more  respectable  position  and  answered  to 
another  name  ! ' 

'  Memorandum,'  wrote  do'.vn  Tinkler,  *  to  inquire  if  his 
lordship  can  supply  information  regarding  the  past  of  the 
so-called  Jentham.' 

'  The  bishop,'  continued  the  narrator,  with  a  covert  smile 
at  Tinkler's  unnecessary  scribbling,  'was  apparently  sorry 
to  see  an  old  friend  in  a  homeless  and  penniless  condition, 
for  to  help  him  on  in  the  world  he  gave  him  the  sum  of 
two  hundred  pounds.' 

'That,'  declared  Tinkler,  throwing  down  his  pen,  'is 
charity  gone  mad — if — he  emphasised  the  word — 'if,  mark 
me,  it  is  true.' 

'  If  it  were  not  true  I  should  not  state  it,'  rejoined  Baltic, 
gravely.  '  As  a  Christian  I  have  a  great  regard  for  the 
truth.  Bishop  Pendle  drew  that  sum  out  of  his  London 
account  in  twenty  ten-pound  notes.  I  have  the  numbers 
of  those  notes,  and  I  traced  several  to  the  possession  of  the 
assassin,  who  must  have  taken  them  from  the  corpse.  On 
these  grounds,  Mr  Inspector,  I  assert  that  Dr  Pendle  gave 
Jentham  two  hundred  pounds.' 
13  265 


The  BisJiop's  Secret 

Tinkler  again  took  up  his  pen.  •  Memo,'  he  set  down, 
'  to  ask  his  lordship  if  he  helped  the  so-called  Jentliam  with 
money.     If  so,  \\os  much?' 

•As  you  know,' resumed  Baltic,  with  deliberation,  'Jen- 
tham  was  shot  through  the  heart,  but  the  pistol  could  not 
be  found.  It  is  now  in  my  possession,  and  I  obtained  it 
from  Mother  Jael  !  * 

*  What !  did  she  kill  the  poor  devil?' 

•  I  have  already  said  that  the  murderer  is  a  man,  Mr 
Inspector.  Mother  Jael  knows  nothing  about  the  crime, 
save  that  she  heard  the  shot  and  afterwards  picked  up  the 
pistol  near  the  corpse.  I  obtained  it  from  her  with  con- 
siderable ease  ! ' 

'  By  threatening  her  with  the  warrant  I  gave  you,  no 
doubt.' 

Baltic  shook  his  head.  '  I  made  no  mention  of  the 
warrant,  nor  did  I  produce  it,'  he  replied,  '  but  I  happen 
to  know  something  of  the  Romany  tongue,  and  be  what 
the  Spaniards  call  "  affeciado  "  to  the  gipsies.  When  Mother 
Jael  was  convinced  that  I  was  a  brother  of  tent  and  road, 
she  gave  me  the  pistol  without  ado.  It  is  best  to  woik  by 
kindness,  Mr  Inspector.' 

'  We  can't  all  be  gipsies,  Mr  Baltic,  sir.  Proceed  !  What 
about  the  pistol  ?  ' 

'  The  pistol,'  continued  Baltic,  passing  over  the  envious 
sneer,  '  had  a  silver  plate  on  the  butt,  inscribed  with  the 
letters  "  G.P."  I  did  not  know  if  the  weapon  belonged  to 
Bishop  George  Pendle,  Captain  George  Pendle,  or  to  Mr 
Gabriel  Pendle.' 

Inspector  Tinkler  looked  up  aghast.  '  By  Jupiter !  sir, 
you  don't  mean  lo  tell  me  that  you  suspected  the  bishop  ? 
Damme,  Mr  Baltic,  how  dare  you?' 

Now  the  missionary  was  not  going  to  confide  in  this 
official  thick-head  regarding  Cargrim's  suspicions  of  the 
bishop,  which  had  led  him  to  connect  the  pistol  with  the 
prelate;  so  he  evaded  the  difficulty  by  explaining  that  as 
the  lent  money  was  a  link  between  the  bishop  and  Jen- 
tham,  and  the  initials  on  the  pistol  were  those  of  his 
lordship,  he  naturally  fancied  that  the  weapon  belonged 
to  Dr  Pendle,  'although  I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that 
I  suspected  him,'  finished  Baltic,  smoothly. 

366 


Mr  Baltic  Explains  Himself 

'  I  should  think  not ! '  growled  Tinkler,  wrathfuUy. 
*  Bishops  don't  murder  tramps  in  England,  whatever 
they  may  do  in  the  South  Seas ! '  and  he  made  a 
third  note,  'Memo. — To  ask  his  lordship  if  he  lost  a 
pistol.' 

•  As  Captain  George  Pendle  is  a  soldier,  Mr  Inspector,  I 
fancied — on  the  testimony  of  the  initials — that  the  pistol 
might  belong  to  him.  On  putting  the  question  to  him,  it 
appeared  that  the  weapon  was  his  property — * 

•  The  devil ! ' 

•  But  that  he  had  leant  it  to  Mr  Gabriel  Pendle  to  pro- 
tect himself  from  roughs  when  that  young  gentleman  was  a 
curate  in  Whitechapel,  London.* 

*  Well,  I'm — d — blessed  ! '  ejaculated  Tinkler,  with  staring 
eyes ;  *  so  Mr  Gabriel  killed  Jentham  ! ' 

'  Don't  jump  to  conclusions,  Mr  Inspector.  Gabriel 
Pendle  is  innocent.  I  never  thought  that  he  was  guilty, 
but  I  fancied  that  he  might  supply  links  in  the  chain  of 
evidence  to  trace  the  real  murderer.  Of  course,  you  know 
that  Mr  Gabriel  lately  went  to  Germany  ? ' 

'Yes,  I  know  that' 

*  Very  good  !  As  the  initials  "  G.  P."  also  stood  for 
Gabriel  Pendle,  I  was  not  at  all  sure  but  what  the  pistol 
might  be  his.  For  the  moment  I  assumed  that  it  was,  that 
he  had  shot  Jentham,  and  that  the  stolen  money  had  been 
used  by  him.' 

'  But  you  hadn't  the  shadow  of  a  proof,  Mr  Baltic' 

*  I  had  the  pistol  with  the  initials,'  retorted  the 
missionary,  '  but,  as  I  said,  I  never  suspected  Mr  Gabriel. 
I  only  assumed  his  guilt  for  the  moment  to  enable  me  to 
trace  the  actual  criminal.  To  make  a  long  story  short,  Mr 
Inspector,  I  went  up  to  London  and  called  at  Cook's  office. 
There  I  discovered  that  Mr  Gabriel  had  paid  for  his  ticket 
with  a  ten-pound  note.  That  note,'  added  Baltic,  im- 
pressively, '  was  one  of  those  given  by  the  bishop  to  Jen- 
tham and  stolen  by  the  assassin  from  the  body  of  his 
victim.     I  knew  it  by  the  number.' 

Tinkler  thumped  the  desk  with  his  hand  in  a  state  of 
uncontrolled  excitement.  *  Then  Mr  Gabriel  must  be 
guilty,'  he  declared  in  his  most  stentorian  voice. 

'  Hush,  if  you  please,'  said  Baltic,  with  a  glance  at  the 
267 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

door.  •  There  ii  no  need  to  let  your  subordinates  know 
what  is  not  true.' 

'  W' hat  is  not  true,  sir?' 

'  Precisely.  I  questioned  Mr  Gabriel  on  my  return,  and 
learned  that  he  had  changed  a  twenty-pound  note  at  The 
Derby  Winner  prior  to  his  departure  for  Germany.  Mosk, 
the  landlord,  gave  him  the  ten  I  traced  to  Cook's  and  two 
fives.  Hush,  please  !  Mr  Gabriel  also  told  me  that  he 
had  lent  the  pistol  to  Mosk  to  protect  himself  from  tramps 
when  riding  to  and  from  Soutbberry,  so — ' 

'  I  see  !     I  see  ! '  roared  Tinkler,  purple  with  excitement. 

•  Mosk  is  the  guilty  man  ! ' 

'  Quite  so,'  rejoined  Baltic,  unmoved.  '  You  have  hit 
upon  the  right  man  at  last.' 

'  So  Bill  Mosk  shot  Jentham.  Oh,  Lord  !  Damme  ! 
Why?' 

'  Don't  swear,  Mr  Inspector,  and  I'll  tell  you.  Mosk 
committed  the  murder  to  get  the  two  hundred  pounds.  I 
suspected  Mosk  almost  from  the  beginning.  The  man  was 
almost  always  drunk  and  frequently  in  tears.  I  found  out 
while  at  The  Derby  \\'inner  that  he  could  not  pay  his 
rent  shortly  before  Jentham's  murder.  After  the  crime  I 
learned  from  Sir  Harry  Brace,  the  landlord,  that  Mosk  had 
paid  his  rent.  When  Mr  Gabriel  told  me  about  the  lend- 
ing of  the  pistol  and  the  changing  of  the  note,  I  went  to  Sir 
Harry's  bank,  and  there,  Mr  Insj^ector,  I  discovered  that 
the  bank-notes  with  which  he  paid  his  rent  were  those 
given  by  the  bishop  to  Jentham.  On  that  evidence,  on  the 
evidence  of  the  pistol,  on  the  evidence  that  Mosk  was 
absent  at  Southberry  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  I  ask  you 
to  obtain  a  warrant  and  arrest  the  man  this  afternoon.' 

'  I  shall  see  a  magistrate  about  it  at  once,'  fussed  Tinkler, 
tearing  up  his  now  useless  memoranda.  '  Bill  Mosk  I 
Damme !  Bill  Mosk  !  I  never  should  have  thought  a 
drunken  hound  like  him  would  have  the  pluck  to  do  it 
Hang  me  if  I  did  ! ' 

'  I  don't  call  it  pluck  to  shoot  an  unarmed  man,  Mr 
Inspector.     It  is  rather  the  act  of  a  coward.' 

*  Coward  or  not,  he  must  swing  for  it,'  growled  Tinkler. 

*  Mr  Baltic,  sir,  I  am  proud  of  you.  You  have  done  what  I 
could  not  do  myself.     Take  my  hand  and  my  thanks,  sir, 

268 


Mr  Baltic  Explains  Himself 

Become  a  detective,  sir,  and  learn  our  trade.     When  yoa 
know  our  business  you  will  do  wonders,  sir,  wonders  ! ' 

In  the  same  patronising  way  a  rush-light  might  have  con- 
gratulated the  sun  on  his  illuminating  powers  and  have 
advised  him  to  become — a  penny  candle. 


«69 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

THE   WAGES    OF   SIN 

While  the  wickedness  and  fate  of  Mosk  were  being  dis- 
cussed and  settled  in  Inspector  Tinkler's  office,  Bishop 
Pendle  was  meditating  on  a  very  important  subject,  im- 
portant both  to  his  domestic  circle  and  to  the  wider  claims 
of  his  exalted  position.  This  was  none  other  than  a 
consideration  of  Gabriel's  engagement  to  the  hotelkeeper's 
daughter,  and  an  argument  with  himself  as  to  whether  or 
no  he  should  consent  to  so  obvious  a  mesalliance.  The 
bishop  was  essentially  a  fair  dealer,  and  not  the  man  to  do 
things  by  halves,  therefore  it  occurred  to  him  that,  as  he 
had  consented  to  George's  marriage  with  Mab,  he  was 
bound  in  all  honour  to  deliberate  on  the  position  of  his 
youngest  son  with  regard  to  Miss  Mosk.  To  use  a  homely 
but  forcible  proverb,  it  was  scarcely  just  to  make  beef  of 
one  and  mutton  of  the  other,  the  more  especially  as  Gabriel 
had  behaved  extremely  well  in  relation  to  his  knowledge  of 
his  parents'  painful  position  and  his  own  nameless  con- 
dition. Some  sons  so  placed  would  have  regarded  tliem- 
selves  as  absolved  from  all  filial  ties,  but  Gabriel,  with  true 
honour  and  true  affection,  never  dreamed  of  acting  in  so 
heartless  a  manner ;  on  the  contrary,  he  clung  the  closer 
to  his  unhappy  father,  and  gave  him,  as  formerly,  both 
obedience  and  filial  love.  Such  honourable  conduct,  sucii 
tender  kindness,  deserved  to  be  rewarded,  and,  as  the 
bishop  determined,  rewarded  it  should  be  in  the  only  way 
left  to  him. 

Having  arrived  at  this  liberal  conclusion,  Dr  Pendle 
decided  to  make  himself  personally  known  to  Bell  and  see 
with  his  own  eyes  the  reported  beauty  which  had  captivated 
Gabriel.  Also,  he  wished  to  judge  for  himself  as  to  the 
girl's  clever  mind  and  modesty  and  common  sense,  all  of 

270 


The  Wages  of  Sin 

which  natural  gifts  Gabriel  had  represented  her  as  possess- 
ing in  no  ordinary  degree.  Therefore,  on  the  very  after- 
noon when  trouble  was  brewing  against  Mosk  in  the 
Beorminster  Police  Office,  the  bishop  of  the  See  took  his 
way  to  The  Derby  Winner.  The  sie;ht  of  Dr  Pendle  in 
the  narrow  streets  of  the  old  town  fluttered  the  slatternly 
dwellers  therein  not  a  little,  and  the  majority  of  the  women 
whisked  indoors  in  mortal  terror,  lest  they  should  be 
reproved  ex  cathedra  for  their  untidy  looks  and  unswept 
doorsteps.  It  was  like  the  descent  of  an  Olympian  god, 
and  awestruck  mortals  fled  swift-footed  from  the  glory  of  his 
presence.  To  use  a  vigorous  American  phrase,  they  made 
themselves  scarce. 

The  good  bishop  was  amused  and  rather  amazed  by  this 
universal  scattering,  for  it  was  his  wish  to  be  loved  rather  than 
feared.  He  was  in  a  decidedly  benign  frame  of  mind,  as 
on  that  very  morning  he  had  received  a  letter  from  his  wife 
stating  that  she  was  coming  home  within  a  few  days,  much 
benefited  by  the  Nauheim  "baths.  This  latter  piece  of  in- 
telligence particularly  pleased  the  bishop,  as  he  judged 
thereby  that  his  wife  would  be  better  able  to  endure  the 
ne-vvs  of  her  first  husband's  untimely  re-appearance.  Dr 
Pendle  was  anxious  that  she  should  know  all  at  once,  so 
that  he  could  marry  her  again  as  speedily  as  possible,  and 
thereby  put  an  end  to  an  uncomfortable  and  dangerous 
state  of  things.  Thus  reflecting  and  thus  deciding,  the 
bishop  descended  the  stony  street  in  his  usual  stately 
manner,  and  even  patted  the  heads  of  one  or  two  stray 
urchins,  who  smiled  in  his  face  with  all  the  confidence  of 
childhood.  Afterwards,  the  mothers  of  those  especial 
children  were  offensively  proud  at  this  episcopal  blessing, 
and  had  'words'  with  less  fortunate  mothers  in  conse- 
quence.    Out  of  such  slight  events  can  dissensions  arise. 

As  Dr  Pendle  neared  The  Derby  Winner  he  was  un- 
lucky enough  to  encounter  Mrs  Pansey,  who  was  that 
afternoon  harassing  the  neighbourhood  with  one  of  her 
parochial  visitations.  She  carried  a  black  bag  stuffed  with 
bundles  of  badly-printed,  badly-written  tracts,  and  was 
distributing  this  dry  fodder  as  food  for  Christian  souls, 
along  with  a  quantity  of  advice  and  reproof.  The  men 
swore,  the  women  wept,  the  children  scrambled  out  of  the 

271 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

iray  v.hen  Mrs  Pansey  swooped  down  like  a  black  vulture  , 
and  wlien  tlie  bishop  chanced  upon  her  he  looked  round  as 
though  he  wished  to  follow  the  grateful  example  of  the 
vanishing  population.  But  Mrs  Pansey  gave  him  no  chance. 
She  blocked  the  way,  spread  out  her  hands  to  signify 
pleasure,  and,  without  greeting  the  bishop,  bellowed  out  in 
pretty  loud  tones,  '  At  last !  at  last !  and  not  before  you  are 
ueeded,  Dr  Ptndle.' 

'Am  I  needed?'  asked  the  mystified  bishop,  mildly. 

•  The  !  )erby  Winner ! '  was  all  that  Mrs  Pansey  vouch- 
safed in  the  way  of  an  explanation,  and  cast  a  glance  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  public-house. 

'The  Derby  Winner,'  repeated  Dr  Pendle,  reddening, 
as  he  wondered  if  this  busy-body  guessed  bis  errand.  '  I 
am  now  on  my  way  there.' 

'lam  glad  to  henr  it,  bishop!'  said  Mrs  Pansey,  with 
a  toss  of  her  plumed  bonnet.  '  How  often  have  I  asked 
you  to  personally  examine  into  the  drinking  and  gambling 
and  loose  pleasures  which  make  it  a  Jericho  of  sin  ? ' 

'Yes,  yes,  I  remember  you  said  something  about  it 
when  you  were  at  the  palace.' 

'  Said  something  about  it,  my  lord ;  I  said  everything 
about  it,  but  now  that  you  will  see  it  for  yourself,  1  trust 
you  will  ask  Sir  Harry  Brace  to  shut  it  up.' 

'  Dear,  dear ! '  said  the  bishop,  nervously,  '  that  is  an 
extreme  measure.' 

'  An  extreme  necessity,  rather,'  retorted  Mrs  Pansey,  wag- 
ging an  admonitory  finger;  'do  not  compound  with  shame- 
less sin,  bishop.  The  house  is  a  regular  upas  tree.  It 
makes  the  men  drunkards ' — Mrs  Pansey  raised  her  voice 
so  that  the  whole  neighbourhood  might  hear — 'the  women 
sluts ' — there  was  an  angry  murmur  from  the  houses  at 
this  term — 'and  the  children — the  children — '  Mrs  Pansey 
seized  a  passing  brat.  'Look  at  this — this  imajze  of  the 
Creator,'  and  she  offered  the  now  weeping  child  as  an 
illustration. 

Before  Dr  Pendle  could  say  a  word,  the  door  of  a  near 
house  was  flung  violently  open,  and  a  blowzy,  red-faced 
young  woman  pounced  out,  all  on  fire  for  a  fight.  She 
tore  the  small  sinner  from  the  grasp  of  Mrs  Pansey,  and 
began  to  scold  vigorously.     '  Ho  indeed,  mum  1  ho  indeed  I 

373 


The  Wages  of  Sin 

and  would  you  be  pleased  to  repeat  what  you're  a-talkin'  of 
behind  ladies'  backs.' 

'  Mrs  Trumbly  !  the  bishop,  woman  ! ' 

'  No  more  a  woman  than  yourself,  mum ;  and  beggin' 
his  lordship's  parding,  I  'opes  as  he'll  tell  widders  as  ain't 
bin  mothers  not  to  poke  their  stuck-up  noses  into  what 
they  knows  nothing  of.' 

By  this  time  a  crowd  was  collecting,  and  evinced  lively 
signs  of  pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  the  Bishop  of 
Beorminster  as  umpire  in  a  street  row.  But  the  bishop 
had  heard  quite  enough  of  the  affray,  and  without  mincing 
matters  fled  as  quickly  as  his  dignity  would  permit  towards 
the  friendly  shelter  of  The  Derby  Winner,  leaving  Mesdames 
Pansey  and  Trumbly  in  the  thick  of  a  wordy  war.  The  first- 
named  lady  held  her  own  for  some  considerable  time,  until 
routed  by  her  antagonist's  superior  knowledge  of  Billings- 
gate. Then  it  appeared  very  plainly  that  for  once  she  had 
met  with  her  match,  and  she  hastily  abandoned  the  field, 
pursued  by  a  storm  of  highly-coloured  abuse  from  the 
irate  Mrs  Trumbly.  It  was  many  a  long  day  before  Mrs 
Pansey  ventured  into  that  neighbourhood  again ;  and  she 
ever  afterwards  referred  to  it  in  terms  which  a  rigid  Calvinist 
usually  applies  to  Papal  Rome.  As  for  Mrs  Trumbly  her- 
self, the  archdeacon's  widow  said  the  whole  Commination 
Service  over  her  with  heartfelt  and  prayerful  earnestness. 

Bell  flushed  and  whitened,  and  stammered  and  trembled, 
when  she  beheld  the  imposing  figure  of  the  bishop  standing 
in  the  dark,  narrow  passage.  To  her  he  was  a  far-removed 
deity  throned  upon  inaccessible  heights,  awesome  and 
powerful,  to  be  propitiated  with  humbleness  and  prayer; 
and  the  mere  sight  of  him  in  her  immediate  neighbourhood 
brought  her  heart  into  her  mouth.  For  once  she  lost  her 
nonchalant  demeanour,  her  free  and  easy  speech,  and  stood 
nervously  silent  before  him  with  hanging  head  and  reddened 
cheeks.  Fortunately  for  her  she  was  dressed  that  day  in 
a  quiet  and  well-fitting  frock  of  blue  serge,  and  wore  less 
than  her  usual  number  of  jingling  brassy  ornaments.  The 
bishop,  who  had  an  eye  for  a  comely  figure  and  a  pretty 
face,  approved  of  her  looks  ;  but  he  was  clever  enough  to 
see  that,  however  painted  and  shaped,  she  was  made  of 
very  common  clay,  and  would  never  be  able  to  take  her 
S  273 


Tk*>  Bishop's  Sir  ret 

place  amongst  the  porcelain  maidens  to  whom  Gabriel  was 
accustomed.  Still  she  seemed  moccct  and  shy  as  a  maid 
should  be,  and  Dr  Pendle  looked  on  lier  kindly  and  en- 
couragintfly. 

*  You  are  Miss  Mosk,  are  you  not  ? '  he  asked,  raising  his  hat. 
'  Yes,  my — my  lord,'  faltered  Bell,  not  d.iring  to  raise  her 

eyes  above  the  bishop's  gaiters.     'I  am  Bell  Mosk.' 

*  In  that  case  I  should  like  some  conversation  with  you. 
Can  you  take  me  to  a  more  private  place  ? ' 

'The  little  parlour,  my  lord  ;  this  way,  please,'  and  Bell, 
reassured  by  her  visitor's  kindly  manner,  conducted  him 
into  her  father's  private  snuggery  at  the  back  of  the  bar. 
Here  she  placed  a  chnir  for  the  bishop,  and  waited  anxiously 
to  hear  if  he  caine  to  scold  or  praise.  Dr  Pendle  came  to 
the  point  at  once. 

'  I  presume  you  know  who  I  am,  Miss  Mosk  ? '  he  said 
quietly. 

'  Oh,  yes,  sir;  the  Bisliop  of  Beorminster.' 

•Quite  so;  but  I  am  here  less  as  the  bishop  than  as 
Gabriel's  father.' 

•Yes,'  whispered  Bell,  and  stole  a  frightened  look  at  the 
speaker's  face. 

*  There  is  no  need  to  be  alarmed,*  said  Dr  Pendle,  ea- 
couragingly.     '  I  do  not  come  here  to  scold  you.' 

•I  hope  not,  my  lord  !'  said  Miss  Mosk,  recovering  her- 
self a  trifle,  'as  I  have  done  nothing  to  be  scolded  for.  If 
I  am  in  love  with  Gabri  .•!,  and  he  with  me,  'tis  only  human 
nature,  and  as  such  can't  be  run  down.' 

'That  entirely  depends  upon  the  point  of  view  which  is 
taken,'  observed  the  bishop,  mildly.  •  For  instance,  I  have 
a  right  to  be  annoyed  that  my  son  should  engage  himself  to 
you  without  consulting  me.' 

Bell  j^-roduced  a  foolish  little  lace  handkerchief.  *Of 
course,  I  know  I  ain't  a  lady,  sir,'  said  she,  tearfully.  *  But 
I  do  love  Gabriel,  and  I'm  sure  I'll  do  my  best  to  make 
him  hapi>y.' 

'  I  do  not  doubt  that.  Miss  Mosk  ;  but  are  you  sure  that 
you  are  wise  in  marrying  out  of  your  sphere  ? ' 

'  King  Cophetua  loved  a  beggar  maid,  my  lord  ;  and  the 
Lord  of  Burlei;,'h  married  a  village  girl,*  said  Bell,  who 
knew  her  Tennyson,  '  and  I'm  sure  I'm  as  good  as  both  lots.' 

274 


Tlie  Wages  of  Sin 

'Certainly,'  assented  the  bishop,  dryly;  'but  if  I  re- 
member rightly,  the  Lord  of  Burleigh's  bride  sank  under 
her  burden  of  honours.' 

Bell  tossed  her  head  in  spite  of  the  bishop's  presence. 
'Oh,  she  had  no  backbone,  not  a  bit.  I've  got  heaps  more 
sense  than  she  had.  But  you  mustn't  think  I  want  to  run 
after  gentlemen,  sir.  I  have  had  plenty  of  offers ;  and  I 
can  get  more  if  I  want  to.  Gabriel  has  only  to  say  the 
word  and  the  engagement  is  off.' 

'  Indeed,  I  think  that  would  be  the  wiser  course,'  replied 
the  bishop,  who  wondered  more  and  more  what  Gabriel 
could  see  in  this  commonplace  beauty  attractive  to  his 
refined  nature,  *  but  I  know  that  my  son  loves  you  dearly, 
and  I  wish  to  see  him  happy.' 

*  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  want  to  make  him  miserable, 
sir,'  cried  Bell,  her  colour  and  temper  rising. 

'  No  !  no  !  Miss  Mosk.  But  a  matter  like  this  requires 
reflection  and  consideration.' 

'  We  have  reflected,  my  lord.  Gabriel  and  me's  going  to 
marry.' 

'  Indeed !  will  you  not  ask  my  consent  ? ' 

'  I  ask  it  now,  sir  !  I'm  sure,'  said  Bell,  again  becoming 
tearful,  '  this  ain't  my  idea  of  love-making,  to  be  badgered 
into  saying  I'm  not  good  enough  for  him.  If  he's  a  man 
let  him  marry  me,  if  he's  a  worm  he  needn't  I've  no  call 
to  go  begging.     No,  indeed  ! ' 

The  bishop  began  to  feel  somewhat  embarrassed,  for  Miss 
Mosk  applied  every  word  to  herself  in  so  personal  a  way, 
that  whatever  he  said  constituted  a  ground  of  offence,  and 
he  scarcely  knew  upon  what  lines  to  conduct  so  delicate  a 
conversation.  Also  the  girl  was  crying,  and  her  tears  made 
Dr  Pendle  fear  that  he  was  exercising  his  superiority  in  a 
brutal  manner.  Fortunately  the  conversation  was  brought 
abruptly  to  an  end,  for  while  the  bishop  was  casting  about 
how  to  resume  it,  the  door  opened  softly  and  Mr  Mosk 
presented  himself. 

'  Father  ! '  cried  Bell,  in  anything  but  pleased  tones. 

*  My  gal ! '  replied  Mosk,  with  husky  tenderness  ' — '  and  in 
tears.  What  'ave  you  bin  sayin'  to  her,  sir?'  he  added, 
with  a  ferocious  glance  at  Pendle. 

*  Hush,  father  !  'tis  his  lordship,  the  bishop.* 


The  Bishop' s  Secret 

'I  know'd   the   bishop's  looks  afore  you  was  born,   my 

pal,'  said  Mosk,  playfully,  'and  it's  proud  I  am  to  see  'im 

ader  m'  umble  roof.     Lor' !  'ere's  a  'appy  family  meeting.' 

•  I  think,'  said  the  bishop,  wiih  a  glance  at  Mosk  to 
assure  himself  that  the  man  was  sober — '  I  think,  Miss 
Mosk,  that  it  is  advisable  your  father  and  myself  should 
have  a  few  words  in  private.' 

•I  don't  want  father  to  interfere — '  began  Bell,  when  her 
'  arent  gripped  her  arm,  and  cutting  her  short  with  a  scowl 
'  onducted  her  to  the  door. 

'Don't  you  git  m'  back  up,' he  whispered  savagely,  *or 
^  ju'll  be  cussedly  sorry  for  yerself  an'  everyone  else.  Go 
)  yer  mother.* 

•  But,  father,  I—' 

'  Go  to  yer  mother,  I  tell  y','  growled  the  man,  where- 
upon Bell,  seeing  that  her  father  was  in  a  soberly  brutal 
state,  which  was  much  more  dangerous  than  his  usual 
drunken  condition,  hastily  left  the  room,  and  closed  the 
door  after  her.  *  An' now,  m'  lord,'  continued  Mosk,  re- 
turning to  the  bishop,  'jus'  look  at  me.' 

Dr  Pendle  did  so,  but  it  was  not  a  pretty  object  he 
contemplated,  for  the  man  was  untidy,  unwashed  and 
frowsy  in  looks.  He  was  red-eyed  and  white-faced,  but 
perfectly  sober,  although  there  was  every  appearance  about 
him  of  having  only  lately  recovered  from  a  prolonged 
debauch.  Consequently  his  temper  was  morose  and  un- 
certain, and  the  bishop,  having  a  respect  for  the  dignity  of 
his  position  and  cloth,  felt  uneasy  at  the  prospect  of  a 
quarrel  with  this  degraded  creature.  But  Dr  Pendle's 
spirit  was  not  one  to  fail  him  in  such  an  emergency,  and  he 
surveyed  Mr  Caliban  in  a  cool  and  leisurely  manner. 

'  I'm  a  father,  I  am  ! '  continued  Mosk,  defiantly,  *an'  as 
good  a  father  as  you.  M^•  gal's  goin'  to  marry  your  son. 
Now,  m'  lord,  what  have  \ou  to  say  to  that  ?' 

'Moderate  your  tone,  my  man,'  said  the  bishop,  imperi- 
ously ;  '  a  conversation  conducted  in  this  manner  can  hardly 
be  productive  of  good  results  either  tc  yourself  or  to  your 
daughter.' 

'  I  don'  mean  any  'arm ! '  replied  Mosk,  rather  cowed, 
'  but  I  mean  to  'ave  m'  rights,  I  iio.' 

'  Your  rights  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?' 
276 


The  Wages  of  Sin 

'  M'  rights  as  a  father,'  explained  the  man,  sulkily.  '  Your 
son's  bin  runnin'  arter  m'  gal,  and  lowerin'  of  her  goo  ! 
name.' 

'Hold  your  tongue,  sir.  Mr  Pendle's  intentions  with 
regard  to  Miss  Mosk  are  most  honourable.' 

•They'd  better  be,'  threatened  the  other,  'or  I'll  know 
how  to  make  'em  so.     Ah,  that  I  shall.' 

•You  talk  idly,  man,'  said  the  bishop,  coldly. 

•  I  talk  wot'U  do,  m'  lord.  Who's  yer  son,  anyhow  ?  My 
gal's  as  good  as  he,  an*  a  sight  better.  She's  born  on  the 
right  side  of  the  blanket,  she  is.     There  now  ! ' 

A  qualm  as  of  deadly  sickness  seized  Dr  Pendle,  and  he 
started  from  his  chair  with  a  pale  face  and  a  startled  eye. 
•  What  do  you — j  ou — you  mean,  man  ?  '  he  asked  again. 

Mosk  laughed  scornfully,  and  higging  a  packet  of  papers 
out  of  his  pocket  flung  it  on  the  table.  '  That's  what  I 
mean,'  said  he ;  '  certiPcate  !  letters  !  story  !  Yer  wife  ain't 
yer  wife ;  Gabriel's  only  Gabriel  an'  not  Pendle  at  all  ! ' 

'  Certificate !  letters ! '  gasped  the  bishop,  snatching 
them  up.     'You  got  these  from  Jentham.' 

•  That  I  did ;  he  left  them  with  me  afore  he  went  out  to 
meet  you.' 

'You — you  murderer  !' 

•  Murderer  1  Halloa!'  cried  Mosk,  recoiling,  pale  and 
•tartled. 

'Murderer!*  repeated  Dr  Pendle.  'Jentham  showed 
these  to  me  on  the  common ;  you  must  have  taken  them 
from  his  dead  body.     You  are  the  man  who  shot  him.' 

'It's  a  lie,'  whispered  Mosk,  with  pale  lips,  shrinking 
back,  '  an'  if  I  did,  you  daren't  tell.     I  know  your  secret.' 

'  Secret  or  not,  you  shal!  suffer  for  your  crime,'  cried  the 
bishop,  with  a  stride  towards  ihe  door. 

'Stand  back  !  It's  a  lie  1  I'm  dest<erate.  I  didn't  kill — 
Hark!' 

There  was  a  noise  outside  v-hich  terrified  the  guilty  con- 
.science  of  the  murderer.  He  did  not  know  that  the  officers 
of  justice  were  at  the  door,  not  did  the  bishop,  but  the 
unexpected  sound  turned  their  blood  to  water,  and  made 
their  hearts,  the  innocent  and  the  guilty,  knock  at  their 
nbs.     A  sharp  knock  came  at  the  door. 

•Help!'   cried   the   bishop.     'The   murderer!'  and  }' 

277 


The  Bishops  Secret 

sprang  forward  to  throw  himself  on  the  shaking,  shambling 
wretch.  Mosk  eluded  him,  but  uttered  a  squeaking  cry 
like  the  shriek  of  a  hunted  hare  in  the  jaws  of  the  grey- 
hound. The  next  instant  the  room  seemed  to  swarm  with 
men,  and  the  bishop  as  in  a  dream  heard  the  merciless 
formula  of  the  law  pronounced  by  Tinkler, — 

•In  the  nnme  of  the  Queen  I  arrest  you,  William  Mosk, 
fin  a  charge  of  murder.' 


•Tt 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

THE    HONOUR    OF    GABRIEL 

Great  as  had  been  the  popular  excitement  over  Jentham's 
death,  it  was  almost  mild  compared  with  that  which  swept 
through  Eeorminster  when  his  murderer  was  discovered 
and  arrested.  No  one  had  ever  tiiought  of  connecting 
Mosk  with  the  crime  ;  and  even  on  his  seizure  by  warrant 
many  declined  to  believe  in  his  guilt.  Nevertheless,  when 
the  man  was  brought  before  tlie  magistrates,  the  evidence 
adduced  against  him  by  Baltic  w^as  so  strong  and  clear  and 
irrefutable  that,  without  a  dissenting  word  from  the  Bench, 
the  prisoner  was  committed  to  stand  his  trial  at  the  ensuing 
assizes.  Mosk  made  no  defence ;  he  did  not  even  offer  a 
remark ;  but,  accepting  his  fate  with  sullen  apathy,  sunk 
into  a  lethargic,  unobservant  state,  out  of  which  nothing  and 
no  person  could  arouse  him.  His  brain  appeared  to  have 
been  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  his  calamity. 

Many  people  expressed  surprise  that  Bishop  Pendle 
should  have  been  present  when  the  man  was  arrested,  and 
some  blamed  him  for  having  even  gone  to  The  Derby  Winner. 
A  disreputable  pot-house,  they  whispered,  was  not  the 
neighbourhood  in  which  a  spiritual  lord  should  be  found. 
But  Mrs  Pansey,  for  once  on  the  side  of  right,  soon  put  a 
stop  to  such  talk  by  mforming  one  and  all  that  the  bishop 
had  visited  the  hotel  at  her  request  in  order  to  satisfy 
himself  that  the  reports  and  scandals  about  it  were  true. 
That  Mosk  should  have  been  arrested  while  Dr  Pendle  was 
making  his  inquiries  was  a  pure  coincidence,  and  it  was 
greatly  to  the  bishop's  credit  that  he  had  helped  to  secure 
the  murderer.  In  fact,  Mrs  Pansey  was  not  very  sure  but 
what  he  had  taken  the  wretch  in  charge  with  his  own 
august  hands. 

And  the  bishop  himself?     Ke  was  glad  that  Mrs  Pansey, 

379 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

to  foster  her  own  vanity,  had  put  this  complexion  on  his 
visit  to  the  hotel,  as  it  did  away  with  any  need  of  a  true 
but  uncomfortable  explanation.  Also  he  had  carried  home 
with  him  the  packet  tossed  on  the  table  by  Mosk,  therefore, 
so  far  as  actual  proof  was  concerned,  his  secret  was  still 
his  own.  But  the  murderer  knew  it,  for  not  only  were  the 
certificate  and  letters  in  the  bundle,  but  there  was  also  a 
sheet  of  memoranda  set  down  by  Krant,  alias  Jentham, 
which  proved  clearly  that  the  so-called  Mrs  Pendle  was 
really  his  wife. 

'If  I  destroy  these  papers,'  thought  the  bishop,  'all 
immediate  evidence  likely  to  reveal  the  truth  will  be  done 
away  with.  But  Mosk  knows  that  Amy  is  not  my  wife  ;  that 
my  marriage  is  illegal,  that  my  children  are  nameless ;  out 
of  revenge  for  my  share  in  his  arrest,  he  may  tell  someone 
the  story  and  reveal  the  name  of  the  church  wherein  Amy 
was  married  to  Krant.  Then  the  register  there  will  disclose 
my  secret  to  anyone  curious  enough  to  search  the  books. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  \\'hat  can  I  do  ?  I  dare  not  visit  Mosk. 
I  dare  not  ask  Graham  to  see  him.  There  is  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  hope  for  the  best.  If  this  miserable  man 
speaks  out,  I  shall  be  ruined.' 

Dr  Pendle  quite  expected  ruin,  for  he  had  no  hope  that  a 
coarse  and  cruel  criminal  would  be  honourable  enough  to 
hold  his  tongue.  But  this  belief,  although  natural  enough, 
showed  how  the  bishop  mi.sjudged  the  man.  From  the 
Tioment  of  his  arrest,  ^Iosk  spoke  no  ill  of  Dr  Pendle;  he 
flinted  at  no  secret,  and  to  all  appearances  was  quite 
determined  to  carry  it  with  him  to  the  scaffold.  On  the 
third  day  of  his  arrest,  however,  hi"  rf)used  himself  from  his 
sullen  silence,  and  asked  that  young  Mr  Pendle  might 
be  sent  for.  The  governor  of  the  prison,  anticipating  a 
confession  to  be  made  in  due  form  to  a  priest,  hastily  sent 
for  Gabriel.  The  young  man  obeyed  the  summons  at  once, 
for,  his  father  having  informed  him  of  Mosk's  acquaintance 
with  the  secret,  he  was  most  anxious  to  learn  from  the 
man  himself  whether  he  intended  to  talk  or  keep  silent. 
It  was  with  a  beating  heart  that  Gabriel  was  ushered  into 
the  prison  cell. 

By  special  permission  the  interview  was  allowed  to  be 
private,  for  Mosk  positively  refused  to  speak  in  the  presence 

280 


The  Honour  of  Gabriel 

of  a  third  person.  He  was  sitting  on  his  bed  when  the 
parson  entered,  but  looked  up  with  a  gleam  of  joy  in  his 
blood-shot  eyes  when  he  was  left  alone  with  the  young 
man. 

"Tis  good  of  you  to  come  and  see  a  poor  devil,  Mr 
Pendle,'  he  said  in  a  grateful  voice.  'Y'll  be  no  loser  by 
yer  kin'ness,  I  can  tell  y'.' 

*To  whom  should  a  priest  come,  save  to  those  who  need 
him?' 

*  Oh,  stow  that ! '  growled  Mosk,  in  a  tone  of  disgust ;  '  if  I 
want  religion  I  can  get  more  than  enough  from  th.it  Baltic 
cove.  He's  never  done  preachin'  and  prayin'  as  if  I  were 
a  bloomin'  'eathen.  No,  Mr  Pendle,  it  ain't  as  a  priest  as 
I  asked  y'  t'  see  me,  but  as  a  man — as  a  gentleman  ! '  His 
voice  broke.     *  It's  about  my  poor  gal,'  he  whispered. 

'About  Bell,'  faltered  Gabriel,  nervously  clasping  his 
hands  together. 

*  Yes  !    I  s'pose,  sir,  you  won't  think  of  marryin'  her  now  ?  ' 

*  Mosk !  Mosk !  who  am  I  that  I  should  visit  your  sins 
on  her  innocent  head  ? ' 

*  Hold  'ard  ! '  cried  Mosk,  his  face  lighting  up ;  '  does  that 
Bible  speech  mean  as  y'  are  goin'  to  behave  honourable  ? ' 

*  How  else  did  you  expect  me  to  behave  ?  Mosk  ! '  said 
Gabriel,  laying  a  slim  hand  on  the  man's  knee,  'after  your 
arrest  I  went  to  The  Derby  Winner.  It  is  shut  up,  and  I 
was  unable  to  enter,  as  Bell  refused  to  see  me.  The  shock 
of  your  evil  deed  has  made  your  wife  so  ill  that  her  life  is 
despaired  of.  Bell  is  by  her  bedside  night  and  day,  so 
this  is  no  time  for  me  to  talk  of  marriage.  But  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honour,  that  in  spite  of  the  disgrace 
you  have  brought  upon  her.  Bell  shall  be  my  wife.' 

Mosk  burst  out  crying  like  a  child.  '  God  bless  you,  Mr 
Pendle  ! '  he  sobbed,  catching  at  Gabriel's  hand.  '  You  have 
lifted  a  weight  off  my  heart.  I  don't  care  if  I  do  swing 
now ;  I  daresay  I  deserve  to  swing,  but  as  long  as  she's 
all  right ! — my  poor  gal !  It's  a  sore  disgrace  to  her. 
And  Susan,  too.  Susan's  dyin',  y'  say  !  Well,  it's  my  fault ; 
but  if  I've  sinned  I've  got  to  pay  a  long  price  for  it* 

'  Alas  !  alas  !  the  wages  of  sin  :s  death.' 

*I  don't  want  religion,  I  tell  'ee,'  said  Mosk,  drjring  his 
eyes ;  '  I've  lived  bad  and  I'll  die  bad.' 
19  281 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  Mosk  !  Mosk  !  even  at  the  eleventh  hour — ' 

'That's  all  right,  Mr  Pendle ;  I  know  all  about  th' 
leventh  hour,  and  repentance  and  the  rest  of  th'  rot.  Stow 
it,  sir,  and  listen.     You'll  keep  true  to  my  gal?' 

'On  the  honour  of  a  gentleman.  I  love  her;  she  is  as 
dear  to  me  now  as  she  ever  was.' 

'  That's  wot  I  expected  y'  to  say,  sir.  Y'  allays  wos  a 
gentleman.  Now  you  'ark,  Mr  Pendle ;  I  knows  all  about 
that  mar — ' 

'  Don't  speak  of  it ! '  interrupted  Gabriel,  with  a  shudder. 

'  I  ain't  goin'  to,  sir.  His  lor'ship  'ave  the  papers  I  took 
from  him  as  I  did  for ;  so  no  one  but  yerself  an'  yer  father 
knows  about  'em.  I  sha'n't  breathe  a  word  about  that 
Krant  marriage  to  a  single,  solitary  soul,  and  when  I  dies 
the  secret  will  die  with  me.  You're  actin'  square  by  my 
poor  gal,  sir,  so  I'm  agoin'  to  act  square  by  you.  It  aia't 
for  me  to  cover  with  shame  the  name  as  you're  goin'  to  give 
my  Bell.' 

'  Thank  you ! '  gasped  Gabriel,  whose  emotion  at  this 
promise  was  so  great  that  he  cou!d  hardly  speak,  'thank 
you  I' 

'  I  don'  need  no  thanks,  sir ;  you're  square,  an'  I'm 
square.  So  now  as  I've  got  that  orf  m'  mind  you'd  better 
go.     I  ain't  fit  company  for  the  likes  of  you.' 

'  Let  me  say  a  prayer,  Mosk  ? ' 

'No,  sir;  it's  too  late  to  pray  for  me.' 

Gabriel  raised  his  hand  solemnly.  'As  Christ  liveth,  it  is 
not  too  late.     Though  your  sins  be  as — * 

'  Goo'bye,'  interrupted  Mosk,  and  throwing  himself  on 
his  bed,  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  Not  another  word 
of  confession  or  repentance  could  Gabriel  get  him  to  speak. 
Nevertheless,  the  clergyman  knelt  down  on  the  chill  stones 
and  implored  God's  pardon  for  this  stubborn  sinner,  whose 
heart  was  hardened  against  the  divine  grace.  Mosk  gave 
no  sign  of  hearing  the  supplication ;  but  when  Gabriel  was 
passing  out  of  the  cell,  he  suddenly  rushed  forward  and 
kissed  his  hand.  '  God,  in  His  mercy,  pity  and  pardon  you, 
Mosk,'  said  Gabriel,  and  left  the  wretched  man  with  his 
frozen  heart  shivering  under  the  black,  black  shadow  of 
the  gallows. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  the  curate  found  himself 
282 


The  Honour  of  Gabriel 

once  more  in  the  sunshine.  As  he  walked  swiftly  along 
towards  the  palace,  to  carry  the  good  news  to  his  father,  he 
thanked  God  in  his  heart  that  the  shadow  of  impending 
disaster  had  passed  away.  The  incriminating  papers  were 
in  the  right  hands ;  their  secret  was  known  only  to  himself, 
to  Graham,  and  to  the  bishop.  When  the  truth  was  told  to 
his  mother,  and  her  position  had  been  rectified  by  a  second 
marriage,  Gabriel  felt  that  all  would  be  safe.  Cargrim  knew 
nothing  of  the  truth,  and  therefore  could  do  nothing. 
With  the  discovery  of  the  actual  criminal  all  his  wicked 
plans  had  come  to  naught ;  and  it  only  remained  for  the 
man  he  had  wronged  so  deeply  to  take  from  him  the 
position  of  trust  which  he  had  so  dishonourably  abused. 
As  for  Gabriel  himself,  he  determined  to  marry  Bell  Mosk, 
as  he  had  promised  her  miserable  father,  and  to  sail  with 
his  wife  for  the  mission  fields  of  the  South  Seas.  There 
they  could  begin  a  new  life,  and,  happy  in  one  another's 
love,  would  forget  the  past  in  assiduous  labours  amongst 
the  heathen.  Baltic  knew  the  South  Seas;  Baltic 
could  advise  and  direct  how  they  should  begin  to  labour 
in  that  vineyard  of  the  Lord ;  and  Baltic  could  start 
them  on  a  new  career  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  sowing 
of  the  good  seed.  With  thoughts  like  these,  Gabriel  walked 
along,  wrapped  in  almost  apocalyptic  visions,  and  saw  with 
inspired  gaze  the  past  sorrows  of  himself  and  Bell  fade 
and  vanish  in  the  glory  of  a  God-guided,  God-provided 
future.  It  was  not  the  career  he  had  shadowed  forth  for 
himself;  but  he  resigned  his  ambitions  for  Bell's  sake,  and 
aided  by  love  overcame  his  preference  for  civilised  ease. 
Vincit,  qui  se  vincit. 

While  Gabriel  was  thus  battling,  and  thus  overcoming, 
Baltic  was  seated  beside  Mosk,  striving  to  bring  him  to  a 
due  sense  of  his  wickedness  and  weakness,  and  need  of 
God's  forgiveness.  He  had  prayed,  and  reproved,  and 
persuaded,  and  besought,  many  times  before;  but  had 
hitherto  been  baffled  by  the  cynicism  and  stubborn  nature 
of  the  man.  One  less  enthusiastic  than  Baltic  would  have 
been  discouraged,  but,  braced  by  fanaticism,  the  man  was 
resolved  to  conquer  this  adversary  of  Christ  and  win  back 
an  erring  soul  from  the  ranks  of  Satan's  evil  host.  With 
his  well-worn  Bible  on  his  knee,  he  expounded  text  after 

19  283 


The  Bishop's  Sen'et 

text,  amplified  the  message  of  redemption  and  pardon, 
and,  with  all  the  eloquence  religion  had  taught  his  tongue, 
urged  Mosk  to  plead  for  mercy  from  the  God  he  had  so 
dteply  offended.     But  all  in  vain. 

'Wot's  th'  use  of  livin'  had  all  these  years,  and  then 
turnin'  good  for  five  minutes?'  growled  Mosk,  con- 
temptuously.    'There  ain't  no  sense  in  it.' 

'Think  of  the  {lenitent  thief,  my  brother.  He  was  in 
the  same  position  as  you  now  are,  yet  he  was  promised 
paradise  by  God's  own  Son!' 

Mosk  shrui:ged  his  shoulders.  *  It's  easy  enough 
promisin',  I  daresay;  but  'ow  do  1  know,  or  do  you  know 
as  the  promise  'ull  be  kept  ? ' 

*  Believe  and  you  shall  be  saved-' 
*I  can't  believe  what  you  say.' 

•  Not  what  I  say,  poor  sinner,  but  what  Christ  says.* 
There   was  no  possible  answer   to  this  last   remark,  so 

Mosk  launched  out  on  another  topic.  '  I  like  yer  cheek,  I 
do,'  he  growled ;  '  it's  you  that  have  got  me  into  this  mess, 
and  now  you  wants  me  to  take  up  with  your  preaching.' 

'  I  want  to  save  your  soul,  man  ! ' 

'  You'd  much  better  have  saved  my  life.  If  you'd  left  me 
alone  I  wouldn't  have  bin  caught.' 

'  Then  you  would  have  gone  on  living  in  a  state  of  sin. 
So  long  as  you  were  safe  from  the  punishment  of  man  you 
would  not  have  turned  to  God.  Now  you  must  He  is 
your  only  friend.' 

'  It's  more  nor  you  are.  I  don't  call  it  friendship  to 
bring  a  man  to  the  gallows!' 

'  I  do — when  he  has  committed  a  crime,'  said  Baltic, 
gravely.  'You  must  suffer  and  repent,  or  God  will  not 
forgive  you.  You  are  Cain,  fur  you  have  slain  your 
brother.* 

'  You've  got  to  prove  that,'  growled  Mosk,  cunningly ; 
'look,  Mr  Baltic,  jus'  drop  religion  for  a  bit,  and  tell  me 
'ow  you  know  as  I  killed  that  cove.' 

Baltic  closed  his  Bible,  and  looked  mildly  at  the  prisoner. 
'The  evidence  against  you  is  perfectly  clear,  Mosk,'  said  he, 
deliberately.  '  I  traced  the  notes  stolen  from  the  dead  man 
to  your  possession.  You  paid  your  rent  to  Sir  Harry  Brace 
with  the  fruits  of  your  sin.' 

284 


The  Honour  of  Gabriel 

'  Yes,  I  did  ! '  said  Mosk,  sullenly.  *  I  know  it  ain't  no 
good  sayin'  as  I  didn't  kill  Jentham,  for  you're  one  too 
many  for  me.  But  wot  business  had  he  to  go  talkin'  of 
hundreds  of  pounds  to  a  poor  chap  like  nie  as  'adn't  one 
copper  to  rub  agin  the  other  ?  If  he'd  held  his  tongue  I'd 
'ave  known  nothin',  and  he'd  'ave  bin  alive  now  for  you  to 
try  your  'and  on  in  the  religious  way.  Jentham  was  a  bad 
'un,  if  you  like.' 

•  We  are  all  sinners,  Mosk.* 

'  Some  of  us  are  wuss  than  others.  With  the  'caption  of 
murderin'  Jentham  and  priggin'  his  cash,  I  ain't  done  nothin' 
to  no  one  as  I  knows  of.  Look  here,  Mr  Baltic,  I've  done 
one  bit  of  business  to-day  with  the  parson,  and  now  I'm 
goin'  to  do  another  bit  with  you.  'Ave  you  pen  and 
paper?' 

'Yes!'  Baltic  produced  his  pocket-book  and  a  stylo- 
graphic  pen.     '  Are  you  going  to  confess  ? ' 

•I  'spose  I  may  as  well,'  said  Mosk,  scowling.  'You'll 
be  blaming  young  Mr  Pendle,  or  the  bishop,  if  I  don't ;  an' 
as  the  fust  of  'em's  goin'  to  marry  my  Bell,  I  don't  want 
trouble  there.' 

'  Won't  you  confess  from  a  sense  of  your  sin  ? ' 

*No,  I  won't.  It's  my  gal  and  not  repentance  as  makes 
me  tell  the  truth.  I  want  to  put  her  an'  young  Mr  Pendle 
fair  and  square.' 

•Well,*  said  Baltic,  getting  ready  to  write,  'confession  is 
a  sign  that  your  heart  is  softening.' 

'  It  ain't  your  religion  as  is  doing  it,  then,'  sneered  Mosk, 
•  Now  then,  fire  away,  old  cove,' 

The  man  then  went  on  to  state  that  he  was  desperately 
hard  up  when  Jentham  came  to  stay  at  The  Derby  Winner, 
and,  as  he  was  unable  to  pay  his  rent,  he  feared  lest  Sir 
Harry  should  turn  him  and  his  sick  wife  and  much-loved 
daughter  into  the  streets.  Jentham,  in  his  cups,  several 
times  boasted  that  he  was  about  to  receive  a  large  sum  of 
money  from  an  unknown  friend  on  Southberry  Heath,  and 
on  one  occasion  went  so  far  as  to  inform  Mosk  of  the  time 
and  place  when  he  would  receive  it.  He  was  thus  con- 
fidential when  very  drunk,  on  Mosk  reproaching  him  with 
not  paying  for  his  board  and  lodging.  As  the  landlord 
was  in  much  need   of  money,  his  avarice  was  roused  by 

a85 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

the  largeness  of  the  sum  hinted  at  by  Jentham ;  and  think- 
ing that  the  man  was  a  tramp,  who  would  not  be  missed, 
he  determined  to  murder  and  rob  him.  Gabriel  Pendle 
had  given — or  rather,  had  lent — Mosk  a  pistol  to  protect 
himself  from  gipsies,  and  vagrants,  and  harvesters  on  his 
frequent  night  journeys  across  the  lonely  heath  between 
Beorminster  and  Southberry.  On  the  Sunday  when  the 
money  was  to  be  paid  at  the  Cross-Roads,  Mosk  rode  over 
to  Southberry;  and  late  at  night,  about  the  time  of  the 
appointment,  he  went  on  horseback  to  the  Cross  Roads. 
A  storm  came  on  and  detained  him,  so  it  was  after 
the  bishop  had  given  the  money  to  Jentham  that  Mosk 
arrived.  He  saw  the  bishop  departing,  and  recognised  his 
face  in  the  searching  glare  of  the  lightning  flashes.  When 
Dr  Pendle  had  disappeared,  Mosk  rode  up  to  Jentham, 
who,  with  the  money  in  his  hand,  stood  in  the  drenching 
rain  under  the  sign-post.  He  looked  up  as  the  horse 
approached,  but  did  not  run  away,  being  rendered  pot- 
valiant  by  the  liquor  he  had  drunk  earlier  in  the  evening. 
Before  the  man  could  recognise  him,  Mosk  had  jumped  off 
his  horse;  and,  at  close  quarters,  hnd  shot  Jentham  through 
the  heart.  *  He  fell  in  the  mud  like  a  'eap  of  clothes,'  said 
Mosk,  'so  I  jus'  tied  up  the  'oss  to  the  sign-post,  an'  went 
through  his  pockets.  I  got  the  cash — a  bundle  of  notes, 
they  wos — and  some  other  papers  as  I  found.  Then  I 
dragged  his  corp  into  a  ditch  by  the  road,  and  galloped 
orf  on  m'  oss  as  quick  as  I  cud  go  back  to  Southberry. 
There  I  stayed  all  night,  sayin'  as  I'd  bin  turned  back  by 
the  storm  from  riding  over  to  Beorminster.  Nex'  day  I 
come  back  to  m'  hotel,  and  a  week  arter  I  paid  m'  rent  to 
Sir  'Arry  with  the  notes  I'd  stole.  I  guv  a  ten  of  'em  to 
young  Mr  Pendle,  and  two  fives  of  m'  own,  as  he  wanted  to 
change  a  twenty.  If  I'd  know'd  as  it  was  dangerous  I'd 
hev  gone  up  to  London  and  got  other  notes ;  but  I  never 
thought  I'd  be  found  out  by  the  numbers.  No  one  thought 
as  I  did  it;  but  I  did.  'Ow  did  you  think  'twas  me, 
guv'nor?' 

'You  were  always  drunk,'  answered  Baltic,  who  had 
written  all  this  down,  'and  I  sometimes  heard  you  talking 
to  yourself.  Then  Sir  Harry  said  that  you  had  paid  your 
rent,  and  he  did  not  know  where  you  got  the  money  from. 

2.S6 


The  Honour  of  Gab^'iel 

Afterwards  I  found  out  about  the  pistol  and  the  notes  you 
had  paid  Sir  Harry.  I  had  no  proof  of  your  guilt,  although 
I  suspected  you  for  a  long  time ;  but  it  was  the  pistol  which 
Mother  Jael  picked  up  that  put  me  on  the  right  track.' 

'Ah,  wos  it  now?'  said  Mosk,  with  regret.  'Th'  'oss 
knocked  that  out  of  m'  'and  when  I  wos  tyin'  him  up,  and 
I  'adn't  no  time  to  look  for  it  in  the  liiud  an'  dark.  Y' 
wouldn't  hev  caught  me,  I  s'pose,  if  it  hadn't  bin  for  that 
bloomin'  pistol?' 

'Oh,  yes,  I  would,'  rejoined  Baltic,  coolly;  'the  notes 
would  have  hanged  you  in  any  case,  and  I  would  have  got 
at  them  somehow.     I  suspected  you  all  along.' 

'  Wish  y'  'adn't  come  to  m'  house,'  muttered  Mosk,  dis- 
contentedly. 

'  I  was  guided  there  by  God  to  punish  your  sin.' 

'Yah  !     Stuff!     Gimme  that  confession  and  I'll  sign  it' 

But  Baltic,  wary  old  fellow  as  he  was,  would  not  permit 
this  without  due  formality.  He  had  the  governor  of  the 
gaol  brought  to  the  cell,  and  Mosk  with  a  laugh  signed  the 
confession  which  condemned  him  in  the  presence  of  two 
witnesses.  The  governor  took  it  away  with  him,  and  again 
left  Baltic  and  the  murderer  alone.  They  eyed  one 
another. 

'  Now  that  I  know  all — '  began  Baltic. 

'Y'  don't  know  all,'  interrupted  Mosk,  with  a  taunting 
laugh ;  *  there's  sumthin'  I  ain't  told  y',  an'  I  ain't  agoin'  to 
tell' 

'You  have  confessed  your  sin,  that  is  enough  for  me. 
God  is  softening  your  hard  heart.  Grace  is  coming  to  your 
soul.     My  brother !  my  brother  !  let  us  pray.' 

'  Sha'n't !     Leave  me  alone,  can't  y'  ?  ' 

Baltic  fell  on  his  knees.  'Oh,  merciful  God,  have  pity 
upon  this  most  unhappy  man  sunk  in  the  pit  of  sin.  Let 
the  Redeemer,  Thy  only  begotten  Son,  stretch  out  His 
saving — ' 

Mosk  began  to  sing  a  comic  song  in  a  harsh  voice. 

*  His  saving  hand,  oh  God,  to  drag  this  poor  soul  from 
perdition.  Let  him  call  upon  Thy  most  Holy  Name  out  of 
the  low  dungeon.     Cut  him  not  off  in  the — ' 

'  Stop  !  stop  ! '  shrieked  the  unhappy  man,  with  his  fingers 
in  his  ears,  '  oh,  stop  ! ' 

»87 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

'  His  sins  are  as  scarlet,  but  the  precious  blood  of  the 
Lamb  will  bleach  them  whiter  than  fine  wool.  Have  mercy, 
Heavenly  Father — ' 

Mosk,  overwrought  and  worn  out,  began  to  sob  hysteric- 
ally. At  the  sound  of  that  grief  Baltic  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  sinner. 

'  On  your  knees  !  on  your  knees,  my  brother,'  he  cried  in 
trumpet  tones,  with  flashing  eyes,  'implore  mercy  before 
the  Great  White  Throne.  Now  is  the  time  for  repentance. 
God  pity  you  !  Christ  save  you  !  Satan  loose  you  ! '  And 
he  forced  the  man  on  to  his  knees.  *  Down  in  Christ's 
name.' 

A  choking,  strangled  cry  escaped  from  the  murderer, 
and  his  body  pitched  forward  heavily  on  the  cold  stone*. 
Baltic  continued  to  pray. 


9« 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

THE   REBELLION    OF    MRS    PENDLB 

•  Thank  God ! '  said  the  bishop,  when  he  heard  from 
Gabriel's  Hps  that  the  criminal,  who  knew  his  secret,  had 
promised  to  be  silent,  •  at  last  I  can  breathe  freely ;  but 
what  a  price  to  pay  for  our  safety — what  a  price ! ' 

'  Do  you  mean  my  marriage  to  Bell  ? '  asked  Gabriel, 
steadily. 

'  Yes !  If  she  was  undesirable  before,  she  is  more  so 
now.  So  far  as  I  have  seen  her  I  do  not  think  she  is  the 
wife  for  you ;  and  as  the  daughter  of  that  blood-stained 
man — oh,  Gabriel,  my  son !  how  can  I  consent  that  you 
should  take  her  to  your  bosom  ? ' 

' Father,' replied  the  curate,  quietly,  'you  seem  to  forget 
that  I  love  Bell  dearly.  It  was  not  to  close  Mosk's  mouth 
that  I  consented  to  marry  her ;  in  any  case  I  should  do  sa 
She  promised  to  become  my  wife  in  her  time  of  prosperity, 
and  I  should  be  the  meanest  of  men  did  I  leave  her  now 
that  she  is  in  trouble.  Bell  was  dear  to  me  before  ;  she 
is  dearer  to  me  now ;  and  I  am  proud  to  become  her 
husband.' 

•  But  her  father  is  a  murderer,  Gabriel ! ' 

'  Would  you  make  her  responsible  for  his  sins  ?  That  is 
not  like  you,  father.' 

The  bishop  groaned.  *God  knows  I  do  not  wish  to 
thwart  you,  for  you  have  been  a  good  son  to  me.  But 
reflect  for  one  moment  how  public  her  father's  crime  has 
been  ;  everywhere  his  wickedness  is  known  ;  and  should 
you  marry  this  girl,  your  wife,  however  innocent,  must 
bear  the  stigma  of  being  that  man's  daughter.  How  would 
you,  a  sensitive  and  refined  man  shrinking  from  public 
scandal,  bear  the  shame  of  hearing  your  wife  spoken  about 
as  a  murderer's  daughter  ? ' 

'  I  shall  take  steps  to  avert  that  danger.     Yes,  father,  when 
Bell  becomes  my  wife  we  shall  leave  England  for  ever.' 
T  289 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

•Gabriel!  Gabriel!'  cried  the  bishop,  piteously,  'where 
would  you  go  ?' 

'To  the  South  Seas,'  replied  the  curate,  his  thin  face 
lighting  up  with  excitement;  'there,  as  Baltic  tells  us, 
missionaries  are  needed  for  the  heathen.  I  shall  become 
a  missionary,  father,  and  Bell  will  work  by  my  side  to 
expiate  her  father's  sin  by  aiding  me  to  bring  light  to 
those  lost  in  darkness.' 

'  My  poor  boy,  you  dream  Utopia.  From  what  I  saw  of 
that  girl,  she  is  not  one  to  take  up  such  a  life.  You 
will  not  find  your  Priscilla  in  her.  She  is  of  the  world, 
worldly.' 

'The  affliction  which  has  befallen  her  may  turn  her 
thoughts  from  the  world.' 

'  No  ! '  said  the  bishop,  with  quiet  authority.  '  I  am,  as 
you  know,  a  man  who  does  not  speak  idly  or  without 
experience,  and  I  tell  you,  Gabriel,  that  the  girl  is  not  the 
stuff  out  of  which  you  can  mould  an  ideal  wife.  She  is 
handsome,  I  grant  you ;  and  she  seems  to  be  gifted  with  a 
fair  amount  of  common  sense ;  but,  if  you  will  forgive  my 
plain  speaking  of  one  dear  to  you,  she  is  vain  of  her  looks, 
fond  of  dress  and  admiration,  and  is  not  possessed  of  a 
refined  nature.  She  says  that  she  loves  you  ;  that  may  be  ; 
but  you  will  find  that  she  does  not  love  you  sufficiently  to 
merge  her  life  in  yours,  to  condemn  herself  to  exile  amongst 
savages  for  your  sake.  Love  and  single  companionship  are 
not  enoui^h  for  such  an  one  :  she  wants — and  she  will  always 
want — society,  flattery,  amusement  and  excitement.  My 
love  for  you,  Gabriel,  makes  me  anxious  to  think  well  of 
her,  l)ut  my  fatherly  care  mistrusts  her  as  a  wife  for  a  man 
of  your  nature.' 

•But  I  love  her,'  faltered  Gabriel ;  '  I  wish  to  marry  her.' 

*  Believe  me,  you  will  never  m.irry  her,  ray  poor  lad.' 
Gabriel's  face  flushed.     '  Father,  would  you  forbid — ?  * 

•  No,'  interrupted  Dr  Pendle.  '  I  shall  not  forbid ;  but 
she  will  decline.  If  you  tell  her  about  your  mis.^ionary 
scheme,  I  am  confident  she  will  refuse  to  become  your 
wife.  Ask  her  by  all  means ;  keep  your  word  as  a  gentle- 
man should  ;  but  prepare  yourself  for  a  disappointment.' 

•Ah,  father,  you  do  not  know  my  Bell.' 
'  It  is  on  that  point  we  disagree,  Gabriel.     I  do  know 
290 


The  Rebellion  of  Mrs  Pendle 

her;    you   do   not      My  experience  tells  me   that  your 
faith  is  misplaced.' 

'  We  shall  see,'  said  Gabriel,  standing  up  very  erect ;  *  you 
judge  her  too  harshly,  sir.  Bell  will  become  my  wife,  I  am 
sure  of  that* 

'If  she  does,* replied  the  bishop,  giving  his  hand  to  the 
young  man,  '  I  shall  be  the  first  to  welcome  her.' 

*  My  dear,  dear  father ! '  cried  Gabriel,  with  emotion,  '  you 
are  like  yourself;  always  kind,  always  generous.  Tliank 
you,  father ! '  And  the  curate,  not  trusting  himself  to  speak 
further,  lest  he  should  break  down  altogether,  left  the  room 
hurriedly. 

With  a  weary  sigh  Dr  Pendle  sank  into  his  seat,  and 
pressed  his  hand  to  his  aching  head.  He  was  greatly  re- 
lieved to  know  that  his  secret  was  safe  with  Mosk ;  but  his 
troubles  were  not  yet  at  an  end.  It  was  imperative  that  he 
should  reprove  and  dismiss  Cargrim  for  his  duplicity,  and 
most  necessary  for  the  rearrangement  of  their  lives  that  Mrs 
Pendle  should  be  informed  of  the  untimely  resurrection  of 
her  husband.  Also,  foreseeing  the  termination  of  Gabriel's 
unhappy  romance,  he  was  profoundly  sorry  for  the  young 
man,  knowing  well  how  disastrous  would  be  the  effect  on 
one  so  impressionable  and  highly  strung.  No  wonder  the 
bishop  sighed ;  no  wonder  he  felt  depressed.  His  troubles 
had  come  after  the  manner  of  their  kind,  '  not  in  single  spies, 
but  in  battalions,'  and  he  needed  all  his  strength  of  character, 
all  his  courage,  all  his  faith  in  God,  to  meet  and  baffle 
anxieties  so  overwhelming.  In  his  affliction  he  cried 
aloud  w-ith  bitter-mouthed  Jeremiah,  '  Thou  hast  removed 
my  soul  far  off  from  peace ;  I  forget  prosperity.' 

In  due  time  Mrs  Pendle  reappeared  in  Beorminster, 
wonderfully  improved  in  health  and  spirits.  The  astringent 
waters  of  Nauheim  had  strengthened  her  heart,  so  that  it 
now  beat  with  regular  throbs,  w^here  formerly  it  had 
fluttered  feebly;  they  had  brought  the  blood  to  the  sur- 
face of  the  skin,  and  had  flushed  her  anaemic  complexion 
with  a  roseate  hue.  Her  eyes  were  bright,  her  nerves 
steady,  her  step  brisk ;  and  she  began  to  take  some 
interest  in  life,  and  in  those  around  her.  Lucy  pre- 
sented her  mother  to  the  bishop  with  an  unconcealed 
pride,  which  was  surely  pardonable. 

291 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

•There,  papa,'  she  said  proudh',  while  the  bishop  was  lost 
in  wonder  at  this  niarv'jll<)us  tran.sfortuation.  '  What  do  you 
think  of  my  patient  now?' 

*My  dear,  it  is  wonderful  I  The  Nauheim  spring  is  the 
true  fountain  of  youth.' 

*A  very  prosaic  fountain,  I  am  afraid,'  laughed  Mrs 
Pendle ;  'the  treatment  is  not  poetical' 

*  It  is  at  least  niai;;ical,  my  love.  I  must  dip  in  these 
restorative  waters  myself,  lest  1  should  be  taken  rather 
for  your  father  than  your — '  Here  Dr  Pendle,  recollect- 
ing the  falsity  of  the  unspoken  word,  shut  his  mouth  with  a 
qualm  of  deadly  sickness — what  the  Scotch  call  a  grue. 

Mrs  Pendle,  however,  observant  rather  of  his  h-oks  than 
his  words,  did  not  notice  the  unfinished  sentence.  'You 
look  as  though  you  needed  a  course,'  she  said  anxiously ; 
'  if  I  have  grown  younger,  you  have  become  older.  This  is 
just  what  happens  when  I  am  away.  You  never  can  look 
after  yourself,  dear.' 

Not  feeling  inclined  to  spoil  the  first  joy  of  reunion,  Dr 
Pendle  turned  aside  this  speech  with  a  laugh,  and  postponed 
his  explanation  until  a  more  fitting  moment.  In  the  mean- 
time, George  and  Gabriel  and  Harry  were  hovering  round 
the  returned  travellers  with  attentions  and  questions  and 
frequent  conc;rritulations.  Mr  Cnrgrim,  who  had  been  sulk- 
ing ever  since  the  arrest  of  Mosk  had  overthrown  his  plans, 
was  not  present  to  spoil  this  pleasant  family  party,  and  the 
bishop  spent  a  golden  hour  or  so  of  unalloyed  joy.  But  as 
the  night  wore  on,  this  evanescent  pleasure  passed  away,  and 
when  alone  with  Mrs  Pendle  in  her  boudoir,  he  was  so 
gloomy  and  depressed  that  she  insisted  upon  learning  the 
cause  of  his  melancholy. 

'  There  must  be  something  seriously  wrong,  George,*  she 
said  earnestly  ;  '  if  there  is,  you  need  not  hesitate  to  tell  me.* 

'Can  you  bear  to  hear  the  truth.  Amy?  Are  you  strong 
enough  ?' 

'  There  is  something  serious  the  matter,  then  ? '  cried  Mrs 
Pendle,  the  colour  ebbing  from  her  cheeks.  'What  is  it, 
George?  Tell  me  at  once.  I  can  bear  anything  but  this 
suspense.' 

'Amy!'  The  bishop  sat  down  on  the  couch  beside  his 
wife,  and  took  her  hand  in  his  warm,  encouraging  clasp. 

393 


The  Rebellion  of  Mrs  F^endle 

•You  shall  know  all,  my  dearest;  and  may  God  strengthen 
you  to  bear  the  knowledge.' 

'  George !  I — I  am  calm ;  I  am  strong ;  tell  me  what  you 
mean.' 

The  bishop  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  held  her  head  to  his 
breast,  and  in  low,  rapid  tones  related  all  that  had  taken 
place  since  the  night  of  the  reception.  He  did  not  spare 
himself  in  the  recital ;  he  concealed  nothing,  he  added  no- 
thing, but  calmly,  coldly,  mercilessly  told  of  Krant's  return, 
of  Krant's  blackmail,  of  Krant's  terrible  end.  Thence  he 
passed  on  to  talk  of  Cargrim's  suspicions,  of  Baltic's  arrival, 
of  Mosk's  arrest,  and  of  the  latter's  promise  to  keep  the 
secret  of  which  he  had  so  wickedly  become  possessed. 
Having  told  the  past,  he  discussed  the  present,  and  made 
arrangements  for  the  future.  *  Only  Gabriel  and  myself  and 
Graham  know  the  truth  now,  dearest,' he  concluded,  'for  this 
unhappy  man  Mosk  may  be  already  accounted  as  one  dead. 
Next  week  you  and  I  must  take  a  journey  to  some  distant 
parish  in  the  west  of  England,  and  there  become  man  and 
wife  for  the  second  time.  Gabriel  will  keep  silent ;  George 
and  Lucy  need  never  know  the  truth ;  and  so,  my  dearest, 
all  things — at  least  to  the  public  eye — shall  be  as  they  were. 
You  need  not  grieve.  Amy,  or  accuse  yourself  unjustly.  If 
we  have  sinned,  we  have  sinned  innocently,  and  the  burden 
of  evil  cannot  be  laid  on  you  or  me.  Stephen  Krant  is  to 
blame  ;  and  he  has  paid  for  his  wickedness  with  his  life.  So 
far  as  we  may — so  far  as  we  are  able — we  must  right  the 
wrong.  God  has  afflicted  us,  my  dearest ;  but  God  has 
also  protected  us ;  therefore  let  us  thank  Him  with  humble 
hearts  for  His  many  mercies.  He  will  strengthen  us  to  bear 
the  burden ;  through  Him  we  shall  do  valiantly.  "  For  the 
Lord  God  is  a  sun  and  shield  ;  the  Lord  will  give  grace  and 
glory ;  no  good  thing  will  He  withhold  from  them  that  walk 
uprightly."' 

How  wonderful  are  women  !  For  weeks  Bishop  Pendle 
had  been  dreading  this  interview  with  his  delicate,  nervous, 
sensitive  wife.  He  had  expected  tears,  sighs,  loud  sorrow, 
bursts  of  hysterical  weeping,  the  wringing  of  hands,  and  all 
the  undisciplined  grief  of  the  feminine  nature.  But  the  un- 
expected occurred,  as  it  invariably  does  with  the  sex  in 
question.     To  the  bishop's  unconcealed  amazement,  Mrs 

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The  Bishop's  Secret 

Pendle  neither  wept  nor  fainted ;  she  controlled  her 
emoiion  with  a  power  of  will  which  he  had  never  credited 
her  with  possessing,  and  her  first  thought  was  not  for  her- 
self, but  for  her  companion  in  misfortune.  Placing  her 
hands  on  either  side  of  the  bishop's  face,  she  kissed  him 
fondly,  tenderly,  pityingly. 

'  My  poor  darling,  how  you  must  have  suffered  ! '  she  said 
softly.  '  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  this  long  ago,  so  that 
I  might  share  your  sorrow?' 

'  I  was  afraid — afraid  to — to  speak.  Amy,'  gasped  the 
bishop,  overwhelmed  by  her  extraordinary  composure. 

•  You  need  not  have  been  afraid,  George.  I  am  no  fair- 
weather  wife.' 

'Alas  !  alas  ! '  sighed  the  bishop.' 

'I  am  your  wife,'  cried  Mrs  Pendle,  answering  his  thought 
after  the  manner  of  women ;  '  that  wicked,  cruel  man  died  to 
me  thirty  years  ago.' 

'  In  the  eyes  of  the  law,  my — * 

•In  the  eyes  of  God  I  am  your  wife,'  interrupted  Mrs 
Pendle,  vehemently;  'for  over  twenty-five  years  we  have 
been  all  in  all  to  one  another.  I  bear  your  name,  I  am 
the  mother  of  your  children.  Do  you  think  these  things 
won't  outweigh  the  claims  of  that  wretch,  who  ill-treated 
and  deserted  me,  who  lied  about  his  death,  and  extorted 
money  for  his  forgery  ?  To  satisfy  your  scruples  I  am  will- 
ing to  marry  you  again  ;  but  to  my  mind  there  is  no  need, 
even  though  that  brute  came  back  from  the  grave  to  create 
it.     He—' 

'Amy  !  Amy !  the  man  is  dead  ! ' 

*  I  know  he  is ;  he  died  thirty  years  ago.  Don't  tell  me 
otherwise.  I  am  married  to  you,  and  my  children  can  hold 
up  their  heads  with  anyone.  If  Stephen  Krant  had  come 
to  me  with  his  villainous  tempting,  I  should  have  defied 
him,  scorned  him,  trod  him  under  foot.'  She  rose  in  a 
tempest  of  passion  and  stamped  on  the  carpet. 

'  He  would  have  told  ;  he  would  have  disgraced  us.' 
'There   can  be  no  disgrace  in  innocence,'  flashed  out 
Mrs  Pendle,  fierily.     *  We  married,  you  and  I,  in  all  good 
faith.     He  was  reported  dead ;  you  saw  his  grave.     I  deny 
that  the  man  came  to  life.' 

'  You  cannot  deny  facts,'  said  the  bishop,  shaking  his  head. 
294 


The  Rebellion  of  Mrs  Penule 

*  Can't  I  ?  I'd  deny  anything  so  far  as  that  wretch  is  con- 
cerned. He  fascinated  me  when  I  was  a  weak,  foolish  girl, 
as  a  serpent  fascinates  a  bird.  He  married  me  for  my 
money;  and  when  it  was  gone  his  love  went  with  it.  He 
treated  me  like  the  low-minded  brute  he  was  ;  you  know 
he  did,  George,  you  know  he  did.  When  he  was  shot  in 
Alsace,  I  thanked  God.     I  did  !  I  did  !  I  did  ! ' 

*  Hush,  Amy,  hush  ! '  said  Dr  Pendle,  trying  to  soothe  her 
excitement,  '  you  will  make  yourself  ill ! ' 

*  No,  I  won't,  George ;  I  am  as  calm  as  you  are ;  I  can't 
help  feeling  excited.  I  wished  to  forget  that  man  and  the 
unhappy  life  he  led  me.  I  did  forget  him  in  your  love  and 
in  the  happiness  of  our  children.  It  was  the  sight  of  that 
student  with  the  scarred  face  that  made  me  think  of  him. 
Why,  oh,  why  did  I  speak  about  him  to  Lucy  and  Gabriel? 
Why?     Why?' 

'  You  were  thoughtless,  my  dear.* 

*  I  was  mad,  George,  mad ;  I  should  have  held  my  tongue, 
but  I  didn't.  And  my  poor  boy  knows  the  truth.  You 
should  have  denied  it.' 

*  I  could  not  deny  it.' 

*  Ah !  you  have  not  a  mother's  heart.  I  would  have 
denied,  and  lied,  and  swore  its  falsity  on  the  Bible  sooner 
than  that  one  of  my  darlings  should  have  known  of  it.' 

'  Amy !  Amy !  you  are  out  of  your  mind  to  speak  like 
this.     I  deny  what  is  true  ?     I,  a  priest  ? — a — ' 

*  You  are  a  man  before  everything — a  man  and  a  father.' 

*  And  a  servant  of  the  Most  High,'  rebuked  the  bishop, 
sternly. 

'  Well,  you  look  on  it  in  a  different  light  to  what  I  do. 
You  suffered ;  I  should  not  have  suffered.  I  don't  suffer 
now ;  I  am  not  going  back  thirty  years  to  make  my  heart 
ache.'  She  paused  and  clenched  her  hands.  'Are  you  sure 
that  he  is  dead  ? '  she  asked  harshly. 

*  Quite  sure ;  dead  and  buried.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
about  it  this  time ! ' 

'Is  it  necessary  that  we  should  marry  again?* 
'Absolutely  necessary,'  said  the  bishop,  decisively. 

*  Then  the  sooner  we  get  it  over  the  better,'  replied  Mrs 
Pendle,  petulantly.  '  Here ' — she  wrenched  the  wedding 
ring  off  her  finger — '  take  this !     I  have  no  right  to  wear 

395 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

it.     Neither  maid,  wife,  nor  widow,  what  should  I  do  with 
a  ring  ? '  and  she  began  to  laugh. 

•  Stop  that.  Amy  ! '  cried  the  bishop,  sharply,  for  he  saw 
that,  after  all,  she  was  becoming  hysterical.  'Put  the  ring 
again  on  your  finger,  until  such  lime  as  I  can  replace  it  by 
anotlier.  You  are  Krant's  widow,  and  as  his  widow  I  shall 
marry  you  next  week.' 

As  a  drop  of  cold  water  let  fall  into  boiling  coffee  causes 
the  bubbling  to  subside,  so  did  these  few  stern  words  cool 
down  Mrs  Pendle's  excitemtnt.  She  overcame  her  emotion ; 
she  replaced  the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  again  resumed  her 
seat  by  the  bishop.  'My  pour  dear  George,'  said  she, 
smoothing  his  white  hair,  '  you  are  not  angry  with  me?' 

*  Not  angry.  Amy  ;  but  I  am  rather  vexed  that  you  should 
speak  so  bitterly.' 

•Well,  dnrling,  I  won't  speak  bitterly  again.  Stephen  is 
dead,  so  do  not  let  us  think  about  him  any  more.  Next 
week  we  shall  marry  again,  and  all  our  troubles  will  be  at  an 
end.' 

'They  will,  please  God,'  said  the  bishop,  solemnly  ;  'and 
oh,  Amy,  dearest,  let  us  thnnk  Him  for  His  great  mercy.' 

'  Do  you  think  He  has  been  merciful  ?  '  asked  Mrs  I'endle, 
doubtfully,  for  her  religious  emotion  was  not  strong  enough 
to  blind  her  to  the  stubborn  fact  that  their  troubles  had 
been  undeserved,  that  they  were  innocent  sinners. 

'  Most  merciful,*  murmured  the  bishop,  bowing  his  head. 
*Has  He  not  shown  us  how  to  expiate  our  sin?' 

'Our  sin;  no,  George,  I  won't  agree  to  that.  We  ha\t; 
not  sinned.  We  married  in  the  fullest  belief  that  Stephen 
was  dead.' 

'  My  dear,  all  that  is  past  and  done  with.  I^et  us  look  to 
the  future,  and  thank  the  Almighty  that  He  has  delivered 
us  out  of  our  trouljles.' 

'Yes,  I  thank  Him  for  that,  George,'  said  Mrs  Pendle, 
meekly  enough. 

'That  is  my  own  dear  Amy,'  answered  the  bishop;  and 
producing  his  pocket  Bible,  he  opened  it  at  random.  His 
eye  alighted  on  a  verse  of  Jeremiah,  which  he  read  out  with 
thankful  emotion, — 

'  And  I  will  deliver  tliee  out  of  the  hand  of  the  wicked; 
and  I  will  redeem  thee  out  of  the  hand  of  the  terrible.' 

396 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

DEA   EX   MACHInA 

As  may  be  guessed,  Captain  Pendle,  now  that  the  course 
of  true  love  ran  smoother,  was  an  assiduous  visitor  to  the 
Jenny  Wren  house.  He  and  Mab  were  all  in  all  to  one 
another,  and  in  the  egotism  of  their  love  did  not  trouble 
themselves  about  the  doings  of  their  neighbours.  It  is  true 
that  George  was  relieved  and  pleased  to  hear  of  Mosk's 
arrest  and  confession,  because  Gabriel  was  thereby 
exonerated  from  all  suspicion  of  having  committed  a  vile 
crime;  but  when  reassured  on  this  point,  he  ceased  to 
interest  himself  in  the  matter.  He  was  ignorant  that  his 
brother  loved  Bell  Mosk,  as  neither  Baltic  nor  the  bishop 
had  so  far  enlightened  him,  else  he  might  not  have  been 
quite  so  indifferent  to  the  impending  trial  of  the  wretched 
criminal.  As  it  was,  the  hot  excitement  prevalent  in  Beor- 
minster  left  him  cold,  and  both  he  and  Mab  might  have 
been  dwellers  in  the  moon  for  all  the  interest  they  dis- 
played in  the  topic  of  the  day.  They  lived,  according  to 
the  selfish  custom  of  lovers,  in  an  Arcadia  of  their  own 
creation,  and  were  oblivious  to  the  doings  beyond  its 
borders.  Which  disregard  was  natural  enough  in  their  then 
state  of  mind. 

However,  George,  being  in  the  world  and  of  the  world, 
occasionally  brought  to  Mab  such  scraps  of  news  as  he 
thought  might  interest  her.  He  told  her  of  his  mother's 
return,  of  her  renewed  health,  of  her  pleasure  in  hearing 
that  the  engagement  had  been  sanctioned  by  the  bishop, 
and  delivered  a  message  to  the  effect  that  she  wished  to 
see  and  embrace  her  future  daughter-in-law — all  of  which 
information  gave  Mab  wondrous  pleasure  and  Miss 
Whichello  a  considerable  amount  of  satisfaction,  since  she 

20  297 


The  Bishofs  Secret 

saw  that  there  would  be  no  further  question  of  her  niece's 
unsuital)i!ity  for  George. 

'You  deserve  some  reward  for  your  good  news,*  said 
Mab,  and  produced  a  silk  knitted  necktie  of  martial  red, 
*  so  here  it  is  !  " 

'Dearest,'  cried  Captain  Pendle,  kissing  the  scirf,  '1 
shall  wear  it  next  to  my  heart;'  th.n,  thinking  the  ki-s 
wasted  on  irresponsive  silk,  he  transferred  it  to  the  cheek 
of  his  lady-love. 

'Nonsense!'  said  Miss  Whichello,  smiling  broadly; 
'wear  it  round  your  neck  like  a  sensible  lover.' 

'  Are  lovers  ever  sensible  ? '  inquired  the  captain,  with  a 
twinkle. 

'  I  know  one  who  isn't,'  cried  Mab,  playfully.  'No,  sir,' 
removing  an  eager  arm,  '  you  will  shock  aunty.' 

*  Aunty  has  become  hardened  to  such  shocks,'  smiled 
Miss  Whichello. 

'Aunty  has  been  as  melancholy  as  an  owl  of  late,' 
retorted  Mab,  caressing  the  old  lady  ;  'ever  since  the  arrest 
of  that  man  Mosk  she  has  been  quite  wretched.' 

'  Don't  speak  of  him,  Mab.' 

'Halloo  !  said  George,  with  sudden  recollection,  'I  knew 
there  was  something  else  to  tell  you.     Mosk  is  dead.* 

Miss  Whichello  gave  a  faint  shriek,  and  tightly  clasped 
the  hand  of  her  niece.  '  Dead  ! '  she  gasped,  pale-cheeked 
and  low-toned.     '  Mosk  dead  ! ' 

'  As  a  door  nail,'  rejoined  George,  admiring  his  present; 
•he  hanged  himself  last  night  with  his  braces,  so  the 
gallows  have  lost  a  victim  and  Beorminster  society  a 
sensation  trial  of — ' 

'  George  ! '  cried  Mab,  in  alarm,  '  don't  talk  so ;  you  will 
make  aunty  faint.' 

And  indeed  the  little  old  lady  looked  as  though  she 
were  on  the  point  of  swooning.  Her  face  was  white,  her 
skin  was  cold,  and  leaning  back  her  head  she  had  closed 
her  eyes.  Captain  Pendle's  item  of  news  had  produced 
so  unexpected  a  result  that  he  and  Mab  stared  at  one 
anotlier  in  sur])ris(_:. 

'  You  shouldn't  tell  these  horrors,  George.* 

•  My  love,  how  was  1  to  know  your  aunt  took  an  interest 
in  the  man  ?  ' 

298 


Dea  ex  Alachind 

'  I  don't  take  an  interest  in  him,'  protested  Miss 
Whichello,  faintly;  *but  he  killed  Jentham,  and  now  he  kills 
himself;  it's  horrible.' 

'Horrible,  but  necessary,'  assented  George,  cheerfully; 
'  a  man  who  murders  another  can't  expect  to  get  off  scot- 
free.  Mosk  has  only  done  for  himself  what  the  law  would 
have  done  for  him,     I'm  sorry  for  Baltic,  however.' 

*  The  missionary  !     Why,  George  ?' 

*  Because  this  suicide  will  be  such  a  disappointment  to 
him.  He  has  been  trying  to  make  the  poor  devil — beg 
pardon — poor  wretch  repent ;  but  it  would  seem  that  he 
has  not  been  successful.' 

'  Did  he  not  confess  to  Mr  Baltic  ? '  asked  Miss 
Whichello,  anxiously. 

*  I  believe  so  ;  he  repented  that  far.' 

•  Do  you  know  what  he  told  him  ?  ' 

•That  he  had  killed  Jentham,  and  had  stolen  his  money.' 

•  Did  he  say  if  he  had  found  any  papers  on  Jentham's 
body?' 

•  Not  that  I  know  of,'  replied  George,  staring.  '  Why  1 
had  Jentham  any  particular  papers  in  his  possession  ? ' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  I  really  can't  say,'  answered  Miss 
Whichello,  confusedly,  and  rose  unsteadily  to  her  feet. 
*  Mab,  my  dear,  you  will  excuse  me,  I  am  not  very  well ;  I 
shall  go  to  my  bedroom.' 

'  Let  me  come  too,  aunty.' 

'  No  !  no  ! '  Miss  Whichello  waved  her  niece  back.  •  I 
wish  to  be  alone,'  and  she  left  the  room  abruptly,  without  a 
look  at  either  of  the  young  people.  They  could  not  under- 
stand this  strange  behaviour.  Mab,  woman-like,  turned  on 
Captain  Pendle. 

'It  is  all  your  fault,  George,  talking  of  murders  and 
suicides.' 

'I'm  awfly  sorry,'  said  the  captain,  penitently,  'but  I 
thought  you  would  like  to  hear  the  news.' 

'Not  the  police  news,  thank  you,'  said  Mab,  with  dignity. 

•Why  not  ?     Somethin:^  to  talk  about,  you  know.' 

•You  have  me  to  talk  about.  Captain  Pendle.' 

'  Oh  ! '  George  sprang  forward.  '  Let  us  discuss  that 
subject  at  once.  You  deserve  some  punishment  for  calling 
me  out  of  my  name.     There,  wicked  one ! ' 

299 


The  Bishop s  Secret 

'George,'  very  faintly,  'I — I  shall  not  allow  it!  You — 
you  should  ask  permission.' 

'  Waste  of  time,'  said  the  practical  George,  and  slipped 
his  arm  round  her  waist. 

'  Oh,  indeed  ! ' — indignantly — '  well,  I — '  Here  Captain 
Pendle  punished  her  again,  after  which  Mab  said  that  he 
was  like  all  men,  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself, 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.  Then  she  frowned,  then  she  smiled,  and 
finally  became  a  meek  and  paiient  Grissel  to  the  unfeigned 
delight  of  the  superior  mind.  So  the  pair  forgot  Mosk  and 
his  wretched  death,  forgot  Miss  Whichello  and  her  strange 
conduct,  and  retreated  from  the  world  into  their  Arcadia — 
Paradise — Elysium,  in  which  it  is  best  that  all  sensible 
people  should  leave  this  pair  of  foolish  lovers. 

Miss  Whichello  had  other  things  to  think  of  than  this 
billing  and  cooing.  She  went  to  her  bedroom,  and  lay 
down  for  ten  minutes  or  so;  then  she  got  up  again  and 
began  pacing  restlessly  to  and  fro.  Her  thoughts  were 
busy  with  Mosk,  with  his  victim,  with  Baltic ;  she  wondered 
if  Jentham  had  been  in  possession  of  certain  papers,  if 
these  had  been  stolen  by  Mosk,  if  they  were  now  in  the 
pocket  of  Baltic.  This  last  idea  made  her  blood  turn  cold 
and  her  heart  drum  a  loud  tattoo.  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands ;  she  sat  down,  she  rose  up,  and  in 
a  nervous  fever  of  apprehension  leaned  against  the  wall. 
Then,  after  the  manner  of  those  over-wrought,  she  began  to 
talk  aloud. 

'  I  must  tell  someone  ;  I  must  have  advice,'  she  muttered, 
clenching  her  hands.  '  It  is  of  no  use  seeing  Mr  Baltic ;  he 
is  a  stranger;  he  may  refuse  to  help  me.  Dr  Graham? 
No!  he  is  too  cynical.  The  bishop?'  She  paused  and 
struck  her  hands  lightly  together.  '  The  bishop !  I  shall 
see  him  and  tell  him  alL  For  his  son's  sake,  he  will  help 
my  poor  darling.' 

Having  made  up  her  mind  to  this  course,  Miss  ^^^lichello 
put  on  her  old-fashioned  silk  cloak  and  poke  bonnet.  Then 
she  fished  a  bundle  o!  papers,  yellow  with  age,  out  of  a  tin 
box,  and  slipped  them  into  her  capacious  pocket.  Biting 
her  lips  and  rubbing  her  cheeks  to  bring  back  the  colour, 
she  glided  downstairs,  stole  past  the  drawing-room  door 
like  a  guilty  creature,  and  in  another   minute  was  in   tha 

300 


Dea  ex  Mac  kind 

square.  Here  she  took  a  passing  fly,  and  ordered  the  man 
to  drive  her  to  the  palace  as  speedily  as  possible. 

'I  trust  I  am  acting  for  the  best,'  murmured  the  little 
old  lady,  with  a  sigh.  '  I  think  I  am ;  for  if  Bishop  Pendle 
cannot  help  me,  no  one  else  can.  After  thirty  years,  oh 
God  !  my  poor,  poor  darling ! ' 

In  the  Greek  drama,  when  the  affairs  of  the  dramatis 
personce  became  so  entangled  by  circumstance,  or  fate,  or 
sheer  folly  as  to  be  beyond  their  capability  of  reducing 
them  to  order,  those  involved  in  such  disorder  were  ac- 
customed to  summon  a  deity  to  accomplish  what  was 
impossible  for  mortals  to  achieve.  Then  stepped  the  god 
out  of  a  machine  to  redress  the  wrong  and  reward  the  right, 
to  separate  the  sheep  from  the  goats  and  to  deliver  a 
moral  speech  to  the  audience,  commanding  them  to  note 
how  impossible  it  was  for  man  to  dispense  with  the  guidance 
and  judgment  and  powerful  aid  of  the  Olympian  Hierarchy. 
Miss  Whichello's  mission  was  something  similar;  and 
although  both  she  and  Bishop  Pendle  were  ignorant  that 
she  represented  the  *  goddess  out  of  a  machine '  who  was 
to  settle  all  things  in  a  way  conducive  to  the  happiness  of 
all  persons,  yet  such  was  the  case.  Impelled  by  Fate,  she 
sought  out  the  very  man  to  whom  her  mission  was  most 
acceptable ;  and  seated  face  to  face  with  Bishop  Pendle 
in  that  library  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many 
famous  interviews,  she  unconsciously  gave  him  a  piece 
of  information  which  put  an  end  to  all  his  troubles. 
She  had  certainly  arrived  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and 
might  just  as  well  have  presented  herself  earlier ;  but 
Destiny,  the  playwright  of  the  Universe,  always  decrees 
that  her  dramas  should  play  their  appointed  time  and  never 
permits  her  arbitrator  to  appear  until  immediately  before 
the  fall  of  the  green  curtain.  So  far  as  the  Beorminster 
drama  was  concerned,  the  crucial  moment  was  at  hand, 
the  actor — or  rather  actress — who  was  to  remedy  all  things 
was  on  the  scene,  and  shortly  the  curtain  would  fall  on  a 
situation  of  the  rough  made  smooth.  Then  red  fire,  mar- 
riage bells,  triumphant  virtue  and  cowering  guilt,  with  a 
rhyming  tag,  delivered  by  the  prettiest  actress,  of  'All's 
well  that  ends  well ! ' 

•I    come    to    consult    you    conGdentially,*    said    Miss 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

Whichello,  when  she  and   the  bishop  were  alone   in  the 
library.     '  I  wish  to  ask  for  your  advice.' 

'  My  advice  and  my  friendship  are  both  at  your  service, 
my  dear  lady,'  replied  the  courteous  bishop. 

'  It  is  about  Mab's  parents,'  blurted  out  the  little  old  lady. 

'  Oh  ! '  The  bishop  looked  grave.  '  You  are  about  to 
tell  me  tlie  truth  of  those  rumours  which  were  prevalent  in 
Beonninster  when  you  brought  Miss  Ardcn  home  to  your 
house?' 

'Yes.  I  daresay  Mrs  Pansey  said  all  sorts  of  wicked 
things  about  me,  bishop  ? ' 

'Well,  no!' — Dr  Pendle  wriggled  uneasily — 'she  spoke 
rather  of  your  sister  than  of  you.  I  do  nut  wish  to  repeat 
scandal,  Miss  Whichello,  so  let  us  say  no  more  about  the 
matter.  Your  niece  shall  marry  my  son ;  be  assured  of 
that.  It  is  foolish  to  rake  up  the  past,'  added  the  bishop, 
with  a  sigh. 

'  I  must  rake  up  the  past ;  I  must  tell  you  the  truth,' 
said  Miss  Whicliello,  in  firm  t(  nes,  '  if  only  to  put  a  stop  to 
Mrs  Pansey's  evil  tongue.     What  did  she  say,  bishop  ? ' 

'  Really,  really,  my  dear  lady,  I — * 

'  Bishop,  tell  me  what  she  said  about  my  sister.  I  will 
know.' 

Reluctantly  the  bishop  spoke  out  at  this  direct  request 
'She  said  that  your  sister  had  eloped  in  London  with  a  man 
who  afterwards  refused  to  marry  her,  that  she  had  a  child, 
and  that  such  child  is  your  niece.  Miss  Arden,  whom  you 
brought  to  Beorminster  after  the  death  of  your  unhappy 
sister.' 

'A  fine  mixture  of  truth  and  fiction  indeed,'  said  the  old 
lady,  in  a  haughty  voice.  'I  am  obliged  to  Mrs  Pansey 
for  the  way  in  which  she  has  distorted  facts.' 

'I  fear,  indeed,  that  Mrs  Pansey  exaggerates,'  said  Dr 
Pendle,  shaking  his  head. 

'With  all  due  respect,  bishop,  she  is  a  wicked  old 
Sapphira ! '  cried  Miss  Whichello,  and  forth\vith  produced 
a  bundle  of  papers  out  of  her  pocket.  '  My  unfortunate 
sister  Annie  did  run  away,  but  she  was  married  to  her 
lover  on  the  very  day  she  left  our  house  in  London,  and 
my  darling  Mab  is  as  legitimate  as  your  son  George,  Dr 
Pendle.' 

302 


Dea  ex  Machmd 

The  bishop  winced  at  this  unlucky  illustration.  'Have 
you  a  proof  of  this  marriage,  Miss  Whichello  ? '  he  asked, 
with  a  glance  at  the  papers. 

'  Of  course  I  have,'  she  replied,  untying  the  red  tape  with 
trembling  fingers.  '  Here  is  the  certificate  of  marriage 
which  my  poor  Annie  gave  me  on  her  dying  bed.  I  would 
have  shown  it  before  to  all  Beorminster  had  I  known  of  Mrs 
Pansey's  false  reports.  Look  at  it,  bishop.'  She  thrust  it 
into  his  hand.  'Ann  Whichello,  spinster ;  Pharaoh  Bosvile, 
bachelor.  They  were  married  in  St  Chad's  Church,  Hamp- 
stead,  in  the  month  of  December  1869.  Here  is  Mab's 
certificate  of  birth ;  she  was  christened  in  the  same  church, 
'and  born  in  1870,  the  year  of  the  Franco-German  war,  so 
as  this  is  ninety-seven,  she  is  now  twenty-seven  years  of 
age,  just  two  years  older  than  your  son.  Captain  Pendle.' 

With  much  interest  the  bishop  examined  the  two  certifi- 
cates of  birth  and  marriage  which  Miss  Whichello  placed 
before  him.  They  were  both  legally  perfect,  and  he  saw 
plainly  that  however  badly  Bosvile  might  have  behaved 
afterwards  to  Ann  Bosvile  she  was  undoubtedly  his  wife. 

'  Not  that  he  would  have  married  her  if  he  could  have 
helped  it,'  went  on  Miss  Whichello,  while  the  bishop  looked 
at  the  documents, '  but  Annie  had  a  little  money — not  much 
— which  she  was  to  receive  on  her  wedding  day,  so  the 
wretch  married  her  and  wrote  to  my  dear  father  for  the 
money,  which,  of  course,  under  grandfather's  will,  had  to 
be  paid.  Father  never  would  see  Annie  again,  but  when 
the  poor  darling  wrote  to  me  a  year  afterwards  that  she  was 
dying  with  a  httle  child  by  her  side,  what  could  I  do  but 
go  and  comfort  her  ?  Ah,  poor  darling  Annie  !  *  sobbed  the 
little  old  lady,  'she  was  sadly  changed  from  the  bright, 
beautiful  girl  I  remembered.  Her  husband  turned  out 
a  brute  and  a  ruffian  and  a  spendthrift.  He  wasted  all  her 
m.oney,  and  left  her  within  six  months  of  the  marriage — the 
wretch  !  Annie  tried  to  support  herself  by  needlework,  but 
she  took  cold  in  her  starving  condition  and  broke  down. 
Then  Mab  was  born,  and  she  wrote  to  me.  I  went  at  once, 
bishop,  but  arrived  just  in  time  to  get  those  papers  and 
close  my  dear  Annie's  eyes.  Afterwards  I  brought  Mab 
back  with  me  to  Beorminster,  but  I  kept  her  for  some  time 
in  London  on  account  of  my  father.     When  I  did  bring  her 

303 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

here,  and  I  showed  him  the  n:arria[;e  certificate,  he  got 
quite  fond  of  the  little  pet.  So  all  these  years  Mab  has 
lived  with  me  quite  like  my  own  sweet  child,  and  your  son  is 
a  lucky  man  to  win  her  love,'  added  the  old  maid,  rather 
incoherently.  *It  is  not  everyone  that  I  would  give  my 
dear  Annie's  child  to,  I  can  tell  you,  bishop.  So  that's  the 
whole  story,  and  a  sadly  corrimon  one  it  is.' 

'It  does  you  great  credit,  Miss  Wliichello,'  said  Dr 
Pendle,  patting  her  hand;  'and  I  have  the  highest  respect 
both  for  you  and  your  niece.  I  am  proud,  my  dear  lady, 
that  she  should  become  my  daughter.  But  tell  me  how 
your  unhappy  sister  became  acquainted  with  this  man  ? ' 

'He  was  a  violinist,' replied  Miss  Whichello,  'a  public 
violinist,  and  played  most  beautifully.  Annie  heard  him 
and  saw  him,  and  lost  her  head  over  bis  looks  and  genius. 
He  called  himself  Amaru,  but  his  real  name  was  Pharaoh 
Bos  vile.' 

*A  strange  name.  Miss  Whichello.' 

•  It  is  a  gipsy  name,  bishop.  Bosvile  was  a  gipsy.  He 
learned  the  violin  in  Hungary  or  Spain,  I  don't  know  which, 
and  played  wonderfully.  Afterwards  he  had  an  accident 
which  hurt  his  hand,  and  he  could  not  play;  that  was  the 
reason  he  married  Annie — just  for  her  money,  the  wretch  ! ' 

'A  gipsy,'  murmured  the  bishop,  who  had  turned  pale. 

*Yes;  an  English  gipsy,  but  like  all  those  people  he 
wandered  far  and  near.  The  accident  which  hurt  his  hand 
also  marked  his  cheek  with  a  scar.' 

'The  right  cheek?'  gasped  Dr  Pendle,  leaning  forward. 

*Why,  yes,'  said  Miss  Whichello,  rather  astonished  at  the 
bishop's  emotion ;  '  that  was  how  I  recognised  him  here 
when  he  called  himself  Jentham.     He — ' 

With  a  cry  the  bishop  sprang  to  his  feet  in  a  state  of 
uncontrollable  agitation,  shaking  and  white.  '  W — was 
Jentham — Bos — Bosvile?'  he  stammered.  'Are — are  you 
»ure  ? ' 

'I  am  certain,'  replied  Miss  Whichello,  with  a  scared 
look.  '  I  have  seen  him  dozens  of  times.  Bishop  ! '  Her 
voice  rose  in  a  scream,  for  Dr  Pendle  had  fallen  forward  on 
his  desk. 

•Oh,  my  God!'  cried  the  bishop.  *0h,  God  moot 
merciful ! ' 

304 


I 


Dea  ex  Mac  hind 

The  little  old  lady  was  trembling  violently.  She  thought 
that  the  bishop  had  suddenly  gone  out  of  his  mind.  Nor 
was  she  reassured  when  he  stood  up  and  looked  at  her  with 
a  face,  down  which  the  tears  were  streaming.  Never  had 
Miss  Whichello  seen  a  man  weeping  before,  and  the  sight 
terrified  her  much  more  than  an  outburst  of  anger  would 
have  done.  She  looked  at  the  bishop,  he  looked  at  her, 
and  they  were  both  ashy  white,  both  overcome  with  nervous 
emotion. 

After  a  moment  the  bishop  opened  a  drawer  and  took 
cut  a  bundle  of  papers.  Out  of  these  he  selected  the  mar- 
riage certificate  of  his  wife  and  Krant,  and  compared  it  with 
the  certificate  of  Pharaoh  Bosvile  and  Ann  Whichello. 

'Thank  God!'  he  said  again,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
'This  man  as  Bosvile  married  your  sister  in  1869,  as  Krant 
he  married  Mrs  Pendle  in  1870.' 

'  Married  Mrs  Pendle  ! '  shrieked  Miss  Whichello,  darting 
forward. 

'  Yes.  She  was  a  Mrs  Krant  when  I  married  her,  and  as 
her  husband  was  reported  dead,  I  believed  her  to  be  his 
widow.' 

*  But  she  was  not  his  widow  ! ' 

•  No,  for  Krant  was  Jentham,  and  Jentham  was  alive  after 
my  marriage.' 

'  I  don't  mean  that,'  cried  Miss  Whichello,  laying  a  finger 
on  her  sister's  certificate,  '  but  Jentham  as  Bosvile  married 
Annie  in  1869.' 

'  He  married  my  wife  in  October  1870,'  said  the  bishop, 
breathlessly. 

'Then  his  second  marriage  was  a  false  one,'  said  Miss 
Whichello,  *  for  in  that  year,  in  that  month,  my  sister  was 
still  alive.     Mrs  Pendle  was  never  his  wife.' 

'  No,  thank  God ! '  said  the  bishop,  clasping  his  hands, 
*she  is  my  own  true  wife  after  alL' 


3»5 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

EXIT     MR     C  A  R  G  R  I  M 

On'CE  informed  of  the  welcome  truth,  Dr  Pendle  lost  no 
time  in  having  it  verified  by  documents  and  extraneous 
evidence.  This  was  not  the  affair  of  hours,  but  of  days, 
since  it  entailed  a  visit  to  St  Chad's  Church  at  Hampstead, 
and  a  rigorous  examination  of  the  original  marriage  and 
death  certificates.  Abo,  as  Bosvile,  alias  Krant,  alias 
Jentliam  was  said  to  be  a  gipsy  on  the  authority  of  Miss 
Whichello,  and  as  the  information  that  Baltic  was  in  the 
confidence  of  Mother  Jael  had  trickled  through  Brace 
and  Graham  to  the  bishop,  the  last  named  considered  it 
advisable  that  the  ex-sailor  should  be  informed  of  the 
actual  truth.  Now  that  Dr  Pendle  was  personally  satisfied 
of  the  legality  of  his  marriage,  he  had  no  hesitation  in 
acquainting  Baltic  with  his  life-history,  particularly  as  the 
man  could  obtain  from  Mother  Jael  an  assurance,  in  writ- 
ing if  necessary,  that  Bosvile  and  Jentham  were  one  and  the 
same.  For  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties  concerned,  it  was 
indispensable  that  proof  positive  should  be  procured,  and 
the  matter  settled  beyond  all  doubt.  The  position,  as 
affecting  both  the  private  feelings  and  social  status  of 
Bishop  and  Mrs  Pendle,  was  too  serious  a  one  to  be  dealt 
with  otherwise  than  in  the  most  circumspect  manner. 

After  Miss  Whichello's  visit  and  revelation,  Dr  Pendle 
immediately  sought  out  his  wife  to  explain  that  after  all 
doubts  and  difficulties,  and  lies  and  forgeries,  they  were 
as  legally  bound  to  one  another  as  any  couple  in  the  three 
Kingdoms  ;  that  their  children  were  legitimate  and  could 
bear  their  father's  name,  and  that  the  evil  which  had  survived 
the  death  of  its  author  was  now  but  shadow  and  wind — in 
a  word,  non-existent.  Mrs  Pendle,  who  had  borne  the  shock 
of  her  pseudo  husband's  resurrection  so  bravely,  was  quite 

306 


Exit  Mr  Car  grim 

overwhelmed  by  the  good  news  of  her  re-estabUshed  posi- 
tion, and  fainted  outright  when  her  husband  broke  it  to 
her.  But  for  Lucy's  sake — as  the  bishop  did  not  wish  Lucy 
to  know,  or  even  suspect  anything — she  afterwards  con- 
trolled her  feelings  better,  and,  relieved  from  the  appre- 
hension of  coming  danger,  speedily  recovered  her  health 
and  spirits.  She  was  thus,  at  a  week's  end,  enabled  to  attend 
in  the  library  a  council  of  six  people  summoned  by  her 
husband  to  adjust  the  situation.  The  good  bishop  was 
nothing  if  not  methodical  and  thorough;  and  he  was 
determined  that  the  matter  of  the  false  and  true  marriages 
should  be  threshed  out  to  the  last  grain.  Therefore,  the 
council  was  held  ex  aequo  et  bono. 

On  this  momentous  occasion  there  were  present  the 
bishop  himself  and  Mrs  Pendle,  who  sat  close  beside  his 
chair;  also  Miss  Whichello,  fluttered  and  anxious,  in  juxta- 
position with  Dr  Graham ;  and  Gabriel,  who  had  placed 
himself  near  Baltic  the  sedate  and  solemn-faced.  When  all 
were  assembled,  the  bishop  lost  no  time  in  speaking  of  the 
business  which  had  brought  them  together.  He  related 
in  detail  the  imposture  of  Jentham,  the  murder  by  Mosk, 
who  since  had  taken  his  own  life,  and  the  revelation  of 
Miss  Whichello,  ending  with  the  production  of  the  docu- 
ments proving  the  several  marriages,  and  a  short  statement 
explaining  the  same. 

'  Here,'  said  Dr  Pendle,  '  is  the  certificate  of  marriage 
between  Pharaoh  Bosvile  and  Ann  Whichello,  dated 
December  1869.  They  lived  together  as  man  and  wife  for 
six  months  up  to  May  1S70,  after  which  Bosvile  deserted 
the  unhappy  lady.* 

'After  spending  all  her  money,  the  wretch!'  put  in 
Miss  Whichello,  angrily. 

'Bosvile!'  continued  the  bishop,  'had  previously  made 
the  acquaintance  of  my  wife,  then  Amy  Lancaster,  under 
the  false  name  of  Stephen  Krant ;  and  so  far  won  her  love 
that,  thinking  him  a  single  man,  she  consented  to  marry 
him.' 

'  No,  bishop,'  contradicted  Mrs  Pendle,  very  positively, 
*he  did  not  win  my  love;  he  fascinated  me  with  his  good 
looks  and  charming  manners,  for  in  spite  of  the  scar  on  his 
cheek   Stephen  was   very  handsome.      Some  friend  intro- 

307 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

duced  him  to  my  father  as  a  Hungarian  exile  hiding  under 
the  name  of  Krant  from  Austrian  vengeance;  and  my 
father,  enthusiastic  on  the  subject  of  patriotism,  admitted 
him  to  our  house.  I  was  then  a  weak,  fooHsh  girl,  and  his 
wicked  brilhancy  drew  me  towards  him.  When  he  learned 
that  I  had  money  of  my  own  he  proposed  to  marry  me. 
My  father  objected,  but  I  was  infatuated  by  Stephen's  arts, 
and  became  his  wife  in  October  1870.' 

'  Quite  so,  my  love,'  assenied  her  husband,  mildly ;  '  as 
an  inexperienced  girl  you  were  at  the  mercy  of  that  Belial. 
You  were  married  as  you  say  in  October  1870;  here,  to 
prove  that  statement,  is  the  certificate,'  and  the  bishop 
passed  it  to  Baltic.  '  But  at  the  time  of  such  marriage  Mrs 
Bosvile  was  still  alive.  Miss  Whichello  can  vouch  for  this 
important  fact ! ' 

*  Ah  !  that  I  can,*  sighed  the  little  old  lady,  shaking  her 
head.  '  My  poor  darling  sister  did  not  die  until  January 
1871,  and  I  was  present  to  close  her  weary — weary  eyes. 
Is  not  that  the  certificate  of  her  death  you  are  holding?' 

'Yes,'  answered  the  bishop,  simply,  and  gave  the  paper 
into  her  outstretched  hand.  'You  can  now  understand, 
my  friends,' he  continued,  addressing  the  company  generally, 
'thit  as  Mrs  Bosvile  was  alive  in  October  1870,  the 
marriage  which  her  husband  then  contracted  with  Miss 
Lancaster  was  a  false  one.' 

'That  is  clear  enough,'  murmured  the  attentive  Baltic, 
nodding. 

•It  thus  appears,'  resumed  the  bishop,  concisely,  'that 
when  I  married — as  I  thought — Amy  Krant,  a  widow,  in 
September  187 1,  I  really  and  truly  wedded  Amy 
Lancaster,  a  spinster.  Therefore  this  lady' — and  here 
the  bishop  clasped  tenderly  the  hand  of  Mrs  Pendle — '  is 
my  true,  dear  wife,  and  has  been  legally  so  these  many 
years,  notwithstanding  Bosvile's  infamous  assertion  to  the 
contrary.' 

•  Thank  God  1  thank  God ! '  cried  Mrs  Pendle,  with 
joyful  tears.  *  Gabriel,  my  darling  boy!'  and  she  stretched 
out  her  disengaged  hand  to  caress  her  son.  Gabriel  kissed 
it  with  unconcealed  emotion. 

In  the  meantime,  Dr  Graham  was  examining  the  bishop's 
marriage  certificate  with  sharp  attention,  as  he  thought  he 

308 


Exit  Mr  Cargrim 

espied  a  flaw.  'Pardon  me,  my  dear  Pendle,*  said  he, 
in  his  crisp  voice,  '  but  I  see  that  Mrs  Pendle  became 
your  wife  under  a  name  which  we  now  know  was  not  then 
her  own.     Does  that  false  name  vitiate  the  marriage  ? ' 

•By  no  means,'  replied  the  bishop,  promptly.  'I  took 
counsel's  opinion  on  that  point  when  I  was  in  London.  It 
b  as  follows' — and  Dr  Pendle  read  an  extract  from  a 
legal-looking  document.  * "  A  marriage  which  is  made  in 
ignorance  in  a  false  name  is  perfectly  good.  The  law  on 
the  subject  appears  to  be  this — If  a  person,  to  conceal  his 
or  her  identity,  assumes  either  a  wrong  name  or  description, 
so  as  to  practically  obtain  a  secret  marriage,  the  marriage 
is  void ;  but  if  the  wrong  name  or  description  is  adopted 
by  accident  or  innocently,  the  marriage  is  good."  There- 
fore,' added  Dr  Pendle,  placing  the  paper  on  one  side, 
'  Mrs  Pendle  was  not  Bosvile's  wife  on  two  distinct 
grounds.  Firstly,  because  his  true  wife  was  alive  when  he 
married  her.  Secondly,  because  he  fraudulently  made  her 
his  wife  by  giving  a  false  name  and  description.  Regard- 
ing my  own  marriage,  it  is  a  good  one  in  law,  because  Mrs 
Pendle's  false  name  of  Kxant  was  adopted  in  all  innocence. 
There  is  no  court  in  the  realm  of  Great  Britain,'  concluded 
the  bishop,  with  conviction,  'that  would  not  uphold  my 
marriage  as  true  and  lawful,  and  God  be  thanked  that 
such  is  the  case  ! ' 

•  God  be  thanked !  *  said  Gabriel,  in  his  turn,  and  said 
it  with  heartfelt  earnestness.  Graham,  bubbling  over  with 
pleasure,  jumped  up  in  his  restless  way,  and  gave  a  friendly 
hand  in  turn  to  Dr  Pendle  and  his  wife.  *  I  congratulate 
you  both,  my  dear  friends,'  said  he,  not  without  emotion. 
'You  have  won  through  your  troubles  at  last,  and  can  now 
live  in  much-deserved  peace  for  the  rest  of  your  lives.  Deus 
nobis  haec  oiia  fecit  1  Hey,  bishop,  you  know  the  Mantuan. 
Well,  well,  you  have  paid  forfeit  to  the  gods,  Pendle,  and  they 
will  no  longer  envy  your  good  fortune,  or  seek  to  destroy  it* 

*  Graham,  Graham,'  said  the  bishop,  with  kindly  toler- 
ance, 'always  these  Pagan  sentiments.' 

'  Ay !  ay !  I  am  a  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn,' 
quoted  the  doctor,  rubbing  his  hands.  'Well,  we  cannot 
all  be  bishops.' 

•We  can  all  be  Christians,'  said  Baltic,  gravely. 
309 


The  Bishop s  Secret 

'  Ah  ! '  retorted  Graham.  '  What  we  should  be,  and  what 
w_'  are,  i\Tr  Baltic,  are  points  cap;ihle  of  infinite  discussion. 
At  present  we  should  be  smiling  and  thankful,  which,' 
added  he,  breaking  ofT,  '  Miss  Whichello  is  not,  I  regret  to 
see.' 

'  I  am  thinking  of  my  poor  sister,'  sobbed  the  old  lady. 
'  How  do  I  know  but  that  the  villain  did  not  deceive  her 
also  by  making  her  his  wife  under  a  false  name?  ' 

'  No,  madam  ! '  interposed  Baltic,  eagerly.  *  Bosvile  was 
the  man's  true  name,  therefore  he  was  legally  your  sister's 
husband.  I  wrote  down  a  statement  by  Mother  Jael  that 
Jentham  was  really  Pharaoh  Bosvile,  and,  at  my  request, 
she  signed  the  same.  Here  it  is,  sigiied  by  her  and 
witnessed  by  me.  I  shall  give  it  to  you,  my  lord,  that  you 
may  lock  it  up  safely  with  tb.ose  certificates.' 

'Thank  you,  Mr  Baltic,'  said  the  bishop,  taking  the  slip 
of  paper  tendered  by  the  missionary,  'but  I  trust  that — 
er — that  this  woman  knows  little  of  the  truth.' 

'She  knows  nothing,  my  lord,  save  that  Bosvile,  for  his 
own  purposes,  took  the  names  of  Amaru  and  Jentham  at 
different  times.  The  roi:ue  was  cunning  enough  to  keep 
his  own  counsel  of  his  life  amongst  the  Gentiles  ;  of  his 
marriages,  false  and  true,  Mother  Jael  is  ignorant.  Set  )our 
mind  at  rest,  sir,  she  will  never  trouble  you  in  any  way.' 

'  Good ! '  said  Dr  Pendle,  drawing  a  long  breath  of 
relief.  'Then,  as  such  is  the  case,  my  friends,  I  think  it 
advisable  that  we  should  keep  our  knowledge  of  Cosvile's 
iniquities  to  ourselves.  I  do  not  wish  my  son  George  or 
my  daughter  Lucy  to  learn  the  s:id  story  of  the  past.  Such 
knowledge  would  only  vex  them  unnecessarily.' 

'And  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  Mab  to  know  what  a  villain 
her  father  was,'  broke  in  Miss  Whichello.  'Thank  God 
she  is  unlike  him  in  every  way,  save  that  she  takes  after 
him  in  looks.  When  Captain  Pendle  talks  of  Mab's  rich 
Eastern  beauty,  I  shiver  all  over ;  he  little  knows  that  he 
speaks  the  truth,  and  that  Mab  has  Arab  blood  in  her 
veins.' 

.  'Not  Arab  blood,  my  dear  lady,'  cried  Graham,  alertly; 
'the  gipsies  do  not  come  from  Arabia,  but,  as  is  believed, 
from  the  north  of  India.  They  appeared  in  Europe  about 
the   fifteenth   century,   calling   themselves,   falsely  enough, 

310 


i 


Exit  Mr  Car  grim 

Egyptians.  But  both  Borrow  and  Leland  are  agreed 
that—' 

'  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  the  gipsies,'  interrupted 
Miss  Whichello,  cutting  short  the  doctor's  disquisition ; 
'all  I  know  is,  that  if  Bosvile  or  Jentham,  or  whatever  he 
called  himself,  is  a  sample  of  them,  they  are  a  wicked  lot 
of  Moabites.  I  wonder  the  bishop  lets  his  son  marry  the 
child  of  one,  I  do  indeed  ! ' 

'  Dear  Miss  Whichello,'  said  Mrs  Pendle,  putting  her 
arm  round  the  poor  lady's  neck,  'both  tiie  bishop  and 
myself  are  proud  that  Mab  should  become  our  daughter 
and  George's  wife.  And  after  all,'  she  added  naively, 
'  neither  of  them  will  ever  know  the  truth  ! ' 

'I  hope  not,  I'm  sure,'  wept  Miss  Whichello.  'I  buried 
that  miserable  man  at  my  own  expense,  as  he  was  Mab's 
father.  And  I  have  had  a  stone  put  up  to  him,  with  his 
last  name,  "Jentham,"  inscribed  on  it,  so  that  no  one  might 
ask  questions,  which  would  have  been  asked  had  I  written 
his  real  name.' 

'  No  one  will  ask  questions,'  said  the  bishop,  soothingly, 
*  and  if  they  do,  no  answers  will  be  forthcoming ;  we  are  all 
agreed  on  that  point.' 

'Quite  agreed,'  answered  Baltic,  as  spokesman  for  the 
rest ;  '  we  shall  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead,  and  God 
bless  the  future.' 

'  Amen  ! '  said  Dr  Pendle,  and  bowed  his  grey  head  in  a 
silence  more  eloquent  than  words. 

So  far  the  rough  was  made  smooth,  with  as  much  skill  as 
could  be  exercised  by  mortal  brains ;  but  after  Dr  Pendle 
had  dismissed  his  friends  there  yet  remained  to  him  an 
unpleasant  task,  the  performance  of  which,  in  justice  to 
himself,  could  not  longer  be  postponed.  This  was  the 
punishment  and  dismissal  of  Michael  Cargrim,  who  in- 
deed merited  little  leniency  at  the  hands  of  the  man  whose 
confidence  he  had  so  shamefully  abused.  Serpents  should 
be  crushed,  traitors  should  be  punished,  however  un- 
pleasant may  be  the  exercise  of  the  judicial  funi  tion ;  for  to 
permit  evil  men  to  continue  in  their  evil-doing  is  to  en- 
courage vicious  habits  detrimental  to  the  well-being  of 
humanity.  The  more  just  the  judge,  the  more  severe 
«hould   he  be   towards    such   calculating  sinners,   lest,  in- 

3" 


The  Bishops  Secret 

fected  by  example,  mankind  should  become  even  more 
corrupt  than  it  is.  Bishop  Pendle  was  a  kindly  man,  who 
wished  to  think  the  best  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  usually 
did  so;  but  he  could  not  blind  himself  to  the  base  and 
plotting  nature  of  Cargrim  \  and,  for  the  sake  of  his  family, 
for  the  well-being  of  the  Church,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
schemer  himself,  he  summoned  him  to  receive  rebuke  and 
punishment.  He  was  not  now  the  patron,  the  benefactor; 
but  the  judge,  the  ecclesiastical  superior,  severe  and  im- 
partial. 

Cargrim  obeyed  the  summons  unwillingly  enough,  as  he 
knew  very  well  that  he  was  about  to  receive  the  righteous 
reward  of  his  deeds.  A  day  or  so  before,  when  lamenting 
to  Baltic  that  Dr  Pendle  had  proved  innocent,  the  man 
had  rebuked  him  for  his  baseness,  and  had  given  him  to 
understand  that  the  bishop  was  fully  aware  of  the  con- 
temptible part  which  he  had  acted.  Deserted  by  his 
former  ally,  ignorant  of  Dr  Pendle's  secret,  convinced  of 
Mosk's  guilt,  the  chaplain  was  in  anything  but  a  pleasant 
position.  He  was  reaping  what  he  had  so  industriously 
sown ;  he  was  caught  in  his  own  snare,  and  saw  no  way 
of  defending  his  conduct.  In  a  word,  he  was  ruined,  and 
now  stood  before  his  injured  superior  with  pale  face  and 
hanging  head,  ready  to  be  blamed  and  sentenced  without 
uttering  one  word  on  his  own  behalf.  Nor,  had  he 
possessed  the  insolence  to  do  so,  could  he  have  thought 
of  that  one  necessary  word. 

'  Michael,'  said  the  bishop,  mildly,  '  I  have  been  in- 
formed by  Mr  Baltic  that  you  accused  me  of  a  terrible 
crime.     May  I  ask  on  what  grounds  you  did  so  ? ' 

Cargrim  made  no  reply,  but,  flushing  and  paling  alter- 
nately, looked  shamefaced  at  the  carpet. 

*I  must  answer  myself,  I  see,'  continued  Dr  Pendle, 
after  a  short  silence;  'you  thought  that  because  I  met 
Jentham  on  the  heath  to  pay  him  some  money  I  murdered 
him  in  the  viciousness  of  my  heart.  Why  should  you  think 
so  ill  of  me,  my  poor  boy  ?  Have  I  not  stood  in  the  place 
of  your  father  ?  Have  I  not  treated  you  as  my  own  son  ? 
You  know  that  I  have.  And  my  reward  is,  that  these  many 
weeks  you  have  been  secretly  ti7ing  to  ruin  me.  Even  had 
I  been  gailly,'  cried  the  bishop,  raising  his  voice,  'it  was 

312 


Exit  Mr  Cargrim 

not  your  place  to  proclaim  the  shame  of  one  who  has 

cherished  you.  If  you  had  such  wicked  thoughts  in  your 
heart,  why  did  you  not  come  boldly  before  me  and  accuse 
me  to  my  face  ?  I  should  then  have  known  how  to  answer 
you.  I  can  forgive  malice — yes,  even  malice — but  not 
deceit.  Did  you  never  think  of  my  delicate  wife,  of  my 
innocent  family,  when  plotting  and  scheming  my  ruin  with 
a  smiling  face  ?  Alas !  alas  !  Michael,  how  could  you  act  in 
a  way  so  unworthy  of  a  Christian,  of  a  gentleman  ? ' 

*  What  is  the  use  of  crying  over  spilt  milk  ? '  said  Cargrim, 
doggedly.  *  You  have  the  advantage  now  and  can  do  what 
you  will.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  talking  like  that  ? '  said  the  bishop, 
sternly.  *  Have  the  advantage  now  indeed  ;  I  never  lost  the 
advantage,  sir,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned.  I  did  not 
murder  that  wretched  man,  for  you  know  that  Mosk  con- 
fessed how  he  shot  him  for  the  sake  of  the  money  I  gave 
him.  I  knew  of  Jentham  in  other  days,  under  another 
name,  and  when  he  asked  me  for  money  I  gave  it  to  him. 
My  reason  for  doing  so  I  do  not  choose  to  tell  you,  Mr 
Cargrim.  It  is  not  your  right  to  question  my  actions.  I 
am  not  only  your  elder,  but  your  ecclesiastic  superior,  to 
whom,  as  a  priest,  you  are  bound  to  yield  obedience.  That 
obedience  I  now  exact.     You  must  suffer  for  your  sins.' 

*  You  can't  hurt  me,'  returned  Cargrim,  with  defiance. 

'I  have  no  wish  to  hurt  you,*  answered  the  bishop, 
mildly ;  '  but  for  your  own  good  you  must  be  punished ; 
and  punish  you  I  will  so  far  as  lies  in  my  power.' 

'  I  am  ready  to  be  punished,  my  lord ;  you  have  the  whip 
hand,  so  I  must  submit.' 

'  Michael,  Michael,  harden  not  your  heart !  Repent  of 
your  wickedness  if  it  is  in  you  to  do  so.  I  cannot  spare 
you  if  I  would.  Bonis  nocet  quis  quis  pepercerit  malts ; 
that  is  a  true  saying  which,  as  a  priest,  I  should  obey,  and 
which  I  intend  to  obey  if  only  for  your  own  benefit.  After 
punishment  comes  repentance  and  amendment.' 

Cargrim  scowled.  '  It  is  no  use  talking  further,  my  lord,' 
he  said  roughly.  *  As  I  have  acted  Uke  a  fool,  I  must  take 
a  fool's  wages.' 

'You  are  indeed  a  fool,*  rejoined  the  bishop,  coldly, 
*and  an  ungrateful  fool  to  boot,  or  you  would  not  thus 

21  313 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

answer  one  who  has  your  interest  at  heart.  But  as  you 
take  up  such  a  position,  I  shall  be  brief.  You  must  leave 
my  house  at  once,  and,  fur  very  shame,  I  should  advise 
you  to  leave  the  Church.' 

'  Leave  the  Church  ?  *  echoed  Cargrim,  in  dismay. 

'  I  have  said  it.  As  a  bishop,  1  cannot  entrust  to  a  guilty 
man  the  care  of  immortal  souls.' 

'  Guilty  ?     I  am  guiliy  of  nothing.' 

'  Do  you  call  malice,  falsehood,  dissimulation  nothing?' 

'  You  cannot  unfrock  me  for  what  I  have  done,'  said 
Cargrim,  evading  a  direct  reply.  '  Vou  may  have  the  will, 
but  you  have  not  the  power.' 

Dr  Pendle  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  '  Yours  is 
indeed  an  evil  heart,  when  you  can  use  such  language  to 
me,'  he  said  sorrowfully.  '  I  see  that  it  is  useless  to  argue 
with  you  in  your  present  fallen  condition.' 

'  Fallen  condition,  my  lord  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  poor  lad  !  fallen  not  only  as  a  priest,  but  as  a  man. 
However,  I  shall  plead  no  more.  Go  where  you  will,  do 
what  you  will,  although  I  advise  you  once  more  not  to 
insult  an  offended  God  by  offering  prayers  for  others  which 
you  need  for  yourself.  Yet,  as  I  am  unwilling  that  you 
should  starve,  I  shall  instruct  my  banker  in  London  to  pay 
you  a  monthly  sum  of  money  until  you  are  beyond  want. 
Now  go,  Michael.  I  am  bitterly  disappointed  in  you ;  and 
by  your  own  acts  you  have  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  keep 
you  by  my  side.     Go  !     Repent — and  pray.' 

The  chaplain,  with  a  look  of  malice  on  his  face,  walked, 
or  rather  slunk,  towards  the  door.  '  You  magnify  my  paltry 
sins,'  he  flung  back.     '  What  of  your  own  great  ones  ? ' 

'  Dare  you,  wretched  man,  to  speak  against  your  spiritual 
head  I '  thundered  the  bishop,  starting  to  his  feet,  vested 
with  the  imperious  authority  of  the  Church.  '  Go  !  Quit 
my  sight,  lest  I  cast  you  out  from  amongst  us  !     Go  I ' 

Before  the  blaze  of  that  righteous  wrath,  Cargrim,  livid 
and  trembling,  crept  away  like  a  beaten  hound. 


S>4 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
all's  well  that  ends  well 

*  Bell  !  Bell !  do  not  give  me  up.' 

'  I  must,  Gabriel ;  it  is  my  duty.' 

'  It  is  your  cruelty  !  Ah,  you  never  loved  me  as  I  love 
you.' 

'  That  is  truer  than  you  think,  my  poor  boy.  I  thought 
that  I  loved  you,  but  I  was  wrong.  It  was  your  position 
which  made  me  anxious  to  marry  you ;  it  was  your  weak 
nature  which  made  me  pity  you.  But  I  do  not  love  you  ; 
I  never  did  love  you  ;  and  it  is  better  that  you  should  know 
the  truth  before  we  part.' 

'Part?     Oh,  Bell!  Bell!' 

'  Part,'  repeated  Bell,  firmly,  'and  for  ever.* 

Gabriel's  head  drooped  on  his  breast,  and  he  sighed  as 
one,  long  past  tears,  who  hears  the  clods  falling  on  the  coffin 
in  which  his  beloved  lies.  He  and  Bell  Mosk  were  seated 
in  the  little  parlour  at  the  back  of  the  bar,  and  they  were 
alone  in  the  house,  save  for  one  upstairs,  in  the  room  of 
Mrs  Mosk,  who  watched  beside  the  dead.  On  hearing  of 
her  husband's  rash  act,  the  poor  wife,  miserable  as  she  had 
been  with  the  man,  yet  felt  her  earlier  love  for  him  so  far 
revive  as  to  declare  that  her  heart  was  broken.  She  moaned 
and  wept  and  refused  all  comfort,  until  one  night  she  closed 
her  eyes  on  the  world  which  had  been  so  harsh  and  bitter. 
So  Bell  was  an  orphan,  bereft  of  father  and  mother,  and 
crushed  to  the  earth  by  sorrow  and  shame.  In  her  own 
way  she  had  loved  her  father,  and  his  evil  deed  and  evil 
end  had  struck  her  to  the  heart.  She  was  even  glad  when 
her  mother  died,  for  she  well  knew  that  the  sensitive 
woman  would  never  have  held  up  her  head  again,  after  the 
disgrace  which  had  befallen  her.  And  Bell,  with  a  white 
face  and  dry  eyes,  long  past  weeping,  sat  in  the  dingy  par- 

21  315 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

lour,  refusing  the  only  comfort  which  the  world  could  give 
her  weary  heart.     Poor  Bell !  poor,  pretty  Bell ! 

'Think,  Gabriel,'  she  continued,  in  a  hard,  tearless  voice, 
*  think  what  shame  I  would  bring  upon  you  were  I  weak 
enough  to  consent  to  become  your  wife.  I  had  not  much 
to  give  you  before ;  I  have  less  than  nothing  n(jw.  I  never 
pretended  to  be  a  lady ;  but  I  thought  that,  as  your  wife,  I 
should  never  disgrace  you.  That's  all  past  and  done  with 
now.  I  always  knew  you  were  a  true  gentleman — honour- 
able and  kind.  No  one  but  a  gentleman  like  you  would 
have  kept  his  word  with  the  daughter  of  a  murderer.  But 
you  have  done  so,  dear,  and  I  thank  and  bless  you  for 
your  kindness.  The  only  way  in  which  I  can  show  how 
grateful  I  am  is  to  give  you  back  your  ring.  Take  it, 
Gabriel,  and  God  be  good  to  you  for  your  upright 
kindness.' 

There  was  that  in  her  tone  which  made  Gabriel  feel  that 
her  decision  was  irrevocable.  He  mechanically  took  the 
ring  she  returned  to  him  and  slipped  it  on  his  finger. 
Never  again  was  it  removed  from  where  he  placed  it  at 
that  moment ;  and  in  after  days  it  often  reminded  him  of 
the  one  love  of  his  life.  With  a  second  sigh,  hopeless  and 
resigned,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  looked  at  the  dark  figure 
in  the  twilight  of  the  room. 

'  What  are  your  plans.  Bell  ? '  he  asked  in  an  unemotional 
voice,  which  he  hardly  recognised  as  his  own. 

'  I  am  going  away  from  Beorminster  next  week,'  answered 
the  girl,  listlessly.  '  Sir  Harry  has  arranged  all  about  this 
hotel,  and  has  been  most  kind  in  every  way.  I  have  a  little 
money,  as  Sir  Harry  paid  me  for  the  furniture  and  the  stock- 
in-trade.  Of  course  I  had  to  pay  f — father's  debts ' — she 
•could  hardly  speak  the  words — 'so  there  is  not  much  left. 
Still,  I  have  sufficient  to  take  me  to  London  and  keep  me 
until  I  can  get  a  situation.' 

•  As — as  a  barmaid  ? '  asked  Gabriel,  in  a  low  voice. 
•As  a   barmaid,'  she  replied  coldly.     'What  else  am  I 

fit  for?' 

•  Can  I  not  help  you  ? ' 

•  No ;  you  have  given  me  all  the  help  you  could,  by 
showing  me  how  much  you  respect  me.' 

•  I  do  more  than  respect  you.  Bell ;  I  love  you.' 

316 


AlVs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

•  I  am  glad  of  that,'  replied  Bell,  softly ;  •  it  is  a  great 
thing  for  a  miserable  girl  like  me  to  be  loved.' 

'  Bell !  Bell !  no  one  can  cast  a  stone  at  you.' 

•  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  murderer,  Gabriel ;  and  I  know- 
better  than  you  what  the  world's  charity  is.  Do  you  think 
I  would  stay  in  this  place,  where  cruel  people  would  remind 
me  daily  and  hourly  of  my  father's  sin  ?  Ah,  my  dear,  I 
know  what  would  be  said,  and  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it.  I 
shall  bury  my  poor  mother,  and  go  away,  never  to  return.' 

'  My  poor  Bell !  God  has  indeed  laid  a  heavy  burden 
upon  you.' 

'  Don't ! '  Her  voice  broke  and  the  long-absent  tears 
came  into  her  eyes.  *  Don't  speak  kindly  to  me,  Gabriel ;  I 
can't  bear  kindness.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  bear  the 
worst.  Go  away;  your  goodness  only  makes  things  the 
harder  for  me.  After  all,  I  am  only  a  woman,  and  as  a 
woman  I  must  w-e-e-p.'  She  broke  down,  and  her  tears 
flowed  quickly. 

•  I  shall  go,'  said  Gabriel,  feeling  helpless,  for  indeed  he 
could  do  nothing.     •  Good-bye,  Bell ! '  he  faltered. 

'  Good-bye  ! '  she  sobbed.  '  God  bless  you  ! ' 
Gabriel,  with  a  sick  heart,  moved  slowly  towards  the  door. 
Just  as  he  reached  it.  Bell  rose  swiftly,  and  crossing  the 
room  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  weeping  as  though 
her  overcharged  heart  would  break.  'I  shall  never  kiss 
you  again,'  she  wailed,  *  never,  never  again  ! ' 

•  God  bless  and  keep  you,  my  poor  darling ! '  faltered 
Gabriel. 

•  And  God  bless  you  !  for  a  good  man  you  have  been  to 
me,'  she  sobbed,  and  then  they  parted,  never  to  meet 
again  in  this  world. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  Gabriel  Pendle's  romance.  At 
first  he  thought  of  going  to  the  South  Seas  as  a  missionary, 
but  his  father's  entreaties  that  he  should  avoid  so  extreme 
a  course  prevailed,  and  in  the  end  he  went  no  further 
from  Beorminster  than  Heathcroft  Vicarage.  Mr  Leigh 
died  a  few  days  after  Bell  vanished  from  the  little  county 
town :  and  Gabriel  was  presented  with  the  living  by  the 
bishop.  He  is  a  conscientious  worker,  an  earnest  priest, 
a  popular  vicar,  but  his  heart  is  still  sore  tor  Bell,  who  so 
nobly  gave  him  up  to  bear  her  own  innocent  disgrace 

3»7 


The  Bishops  Secret 

alone.  Where  Bell  is  now  he  does  not  know  ;  nobody  in 
Beorminster  knows — not  even  Mrs  Pansey — for  she  has 
disappeared  like  a  drop  of  water  in  the  wild  waste  ocean  of 
London  town.  And  Gabriel  works  on  amid  the  poor  and 
needy  with  a  cheerful  face  but  a  sore  heart ;  for  it  is  early 
days  yet,  and  his  heart-wounds  are  recent.  No  one  save 
the  bishop  knows  how  he  loved  and  lost  poor  Bell;  but 
Mrs  Pendle,  with  the  double  instinct  of  woman  and  mother, 
guesses  that  her  favourite  son  has  his  own  pitiful  romance, 
and  would  fain  know  of  it,  that  she  might  comfort  him  in 
his  sorrow.  But  Gabriel  has  never  told  her ;  he  will  never 
tell  her,  but  go  silent  and  unmarried  through  life,  true  to 
the  memory  of  the  rough,  commonplace  woman  who  proved 
herself  so  noble  and  honourable  in  adversity.  And  so  no 
more  of  these  poor  souls. 

It  is  more  pleasant  to  talk  of  the  Whichello-Pansey  war. 
*  Bella  matrottis  detestata,^  saith  the  Latin  poet,  who  knew 
little  of  the  sex  to  make  such  a  remark.  To  be  sure,  he 
was  talking  of  public  wars,  and  not  of  domestic  or  social 
battles ;  but  he  should  have  been  more  explicit.  Women 
are  born  fighters — with  their  tongues;  and  an  illustration 
of  this  truth  was  given  in  Beorminster  when  Miss  Whichello 
threw  down  the  gage  to  Mrs  Pansey.  The  little  old  lady 
knew  well  enough  that  when  George  and  Mab  were  married, 
the  archdeacon's  widow  would  use  her  famous  memory  to 
recall  the  scandals  she  had  set  afloat  nearly  thirty  years 
before.  Therefore,  to  defeat  Mrs  Pansey  once  and  for  all, 
she  called  on  that  good  lady  and  dared  her  to  say  that  there 
was  any  disgrace  attached  to  Mab's  parentage.  Mrs  Pansey, 
anticipating  an  easy  victory,  shook  out  her  skirts,  and  was 
up  in  arms  at  once. 

'  I  know  for  a  fact  that  your  sister  Ann  did  not  marry  the 
man  she  eloped  with,'  cried  Mrs  Pansey,  shaking  her  head 
viciously. 

•  Who  told  you  this  fact  ? '  demanded  Miss  Whichello, 
indignantly. 

'  I — I  can't  remember  at  present,  but  that's  no  matter 
— it's  true.' 

'It  is  not  true,  and  you  know  it  is  an  invention  of 
your  own  spiteful  mind,  >irs  Pansey.  My  sister  was  married 
on  the  day  she  left  home,  and  I  have  her  marriage  cer- 

318 


All's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

tificate  to  prove  it.  I  showed  it  to  Bishop  Pendle,  because 
you  poisoned  his  mind  with  your  maHcious  lies,  and  he  is 
quite  satisfied.' 

'Oh,  any  story  would  satisfy  the  bishop,'  sneered  Mrs 
Pansey ;  '  we  all  know  what  he  is  ! ' 

'  We  do — an  honourable  Christian  gentleman  ;  and  we  ali 
know  what  you  are  a — scandalmongering,  spiteful,  soured 
cat.' 

'  Hoity-toity  !  fine  language  this.' 

'  It  is  the  kind  of  language  you  deserve,  ma'am.  All  your 
life  you  have  been  making  mischief  with  your  vile  tongue  ! ' 

'  Woman,'  roared  Mrs  Pansey,  white  with  wrath,  '  no  one 
ever  dared  to  speak  like  this  to  me.' 

'  It's  a  pity  they  didn't,  then,'  retorted  the  undaunted 
Miss  Whichello  ;  '  it  would  have  been  the  better  for  you,  and 
for  Beorminster  also.' 

'  Would  it  indeed,  ma'am  ? '  gasped  her  adversary,  begin- 
ning to  feel  nervous  ;  *  oh,  really  ! '  with  a  hysterical  titter, 
•you  and  your  certificate — I  don't  believe  you  have  it.' 

'Ask  the  bishop  if  I  have  not.  He  is  satisfied,  and  that 
is  all  that  is  necessary,  you  wicked  old  woman.' 

'  You — you  leave  my  house.' 

'I  shall  do  no  such  thing.  Here  I  am,  and  here  I'll 
stay  until  I  speak  my  mind,'  and  Miss  Whichello  thumped 
the  floor  with  her  umbrella,  while  she  gathered  breath  to 
continue.  '  I  haven't  the  certificate  of  my  sister's  marriage 
— haven't  I?  I'll  show  it  to  you  in  a  court  of  law,  Mrs 
Pansey,  when  you  are  in  the  dock — the  dock,  ma'am  ! ' 

'  Me  in  the  dock  ? '  screeched  Mrs  Pansey,  shaking  all 
over,  but  more  from  fear  than  wrath.  '  How — how — dare 
you?' 

'  I  dare  anything  to  stop  your  wicked  tongue.  Every- 
body hates  you ;  some  people  are  fools  enough  to  fear  you, 
but  I  don't,'  cried  Miss  Whichello,  erecting  her  crest;  'no, 
not  a  bit.  One  word  against  me,  or  against  Mab,  and  I'll 
have  you  up  for  defamation  of  character,  as  sure  as  my  name's 
Selina  Whichello.' 

'I — I — I  don't  want  to  say  a  word,'  mumbled  Mrs 
Pansey,  beginning  to  give  way,  after  the  manner  of  bullies 
when  bravely  faced. 

'You   had    better   not.     I    have    the    bishop    and    all 

319 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

Beonninster  on  my  side,  and  you'll  be  turned  out  of  the 
town  if  you  don't  mind  your  own  business.  Oh,  I  know 
what  I'm  talking  about,'  and  Miss  Whichello  gave  a  crow 
of  triumph,  like  a  victorious  bantam. 

'  I  am  not  accustomed  to  this — this  violence,'  sniffed  Mrs 
Pansey,  producing  her  handkerchief;  'if  you — if  you  don't 
go,  I'll  call  my  servants. ** 

'  Do,  and  I'll  tell  them  what  I  think  of  you.  I'm  going 
now.'  Miss  Whichello  rose  briskly,  *  I've  had  my  say 
out,  and  you  know  what  I  intc  nd  to  do  if  you  meddle  with 
my  affairs.  Good-day,  Mrs  Pansey,  and  good-bye,  for  it's 
a  long  time  before  I'll  ever  cross  words  with  you  again, 
ma'am,'  and  the  little  old  lady  marched  out  of  the  room 
with  all  the  honours  of  war. 

Mrs  Pansey  was  completely  crushed.  She  knew  quite  well 
that  Miss  Whichello  was  speaking  the  truth  about  the 
marriage,  and  that  none  of  her  own  inventions  could  stand 
against  the  production  of  the  certificate.  Moreover,  she 
could  not  battle  against  the  Bishop  of  Beorminster,  or 
risk  a  realisation  of  Miss  Whichello's  threat  to  have  her 
into  court.  On  the  whole,  the  archdeacon's  widow  con- 
cluded that  it  would  be  best  for  her  to  accept  her  defeat 
quietly  and  hold  her  tongue.  This  she  did,  and  never  after- 
wards spoke  anything  but  good  about  young  Mrs  Pendle 
and  her  aunt.  She  even  sent  a  weddins:  present,  which 
was  accepted  by  the  victor  as  the  spoils  of  war,  and  was 
so  lenient  in  her  speeches  regarding  the  young  couple  that 
all  Beorminster  was  amazed,  and  wished  to  know  if  Mrs 
Pansey  was  getting  ready  to  join  the  late  archdeacon. 
Hitherto  the  old  lady  had  stormed  and  bullied  her  way 
through  a  meek  and  terrified  world  ;  but  now  she  had  been 
met  and  conquered  and  utterly  overthrown.  Her  nerve 
was  gone,  and  with  it  went  her  influence.  Never  again  did 
she  exercise  her  venomous  tongue.  To  use  a  vulgar  but 
expressive  phrase,  Mrs  Pansey  was  '  wiped  out.' 

Shortly  before  the  marriage  of  George  and  Mab,  the  tribe 
of  gipsies  over  which  Mother  Jael  ruled  vanished  into  the 
nowhere.  Whither  they  went  nobody  knew,  and  nobody 
inquired,  but  their  disappearance  was  a  relief  both  to  Miss 
Whichello  and  the  bishop.  The  latter  had  decided  that, 
to  run  no  risks,  it  was  necessary  Mab  should  be  married 

320 


All's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

under  her  true  name  of  Bosvile ;  and  as  Mother  Jael  knew 
that  such  was  Jentham's  real  name,  Miss  WhicheUo  fancied 
she  might  come  to  hear  that  Mab  was  called  so,  and  make 
inquiries  likely  to  lead  to  unpleasantness.  But  Mother  Jael 
went  away  in  a  happy  moment,  so  Miss  WhicheUo  explained 
to  her  niece  and  George  that  the  name  of  the  former  was 
not  *  Arden '  but  '  Bosvile.'  *  It  is  necessary  that  I  should 
tell  you  this,  dear,  on  account  of  the  marriage,'  said  the 
little  old  lady ;  *  your  parents,  my  dearest  Mab,  are  dead  and 
gone;  but  your  father  was  alive  when  I  took  you  to  live 
with  me,  and  I  called  you  by  another  name  so  that  he 
might  not  claim  you.  He  was  not  a  good  man,  my 
love.' 

♦  Never  mind,  aunty,'  cried  Mab,  embracing  the  old  lady. 
*  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  him.  You  are  both  my  father 
and  my  mother,  and  I  know  that  what  you  say  is  right.  I 
suppose,'  she  added,  turning  shyly  to  George,  '  that  Captain 
Pendle  loves  Miss  Bosvile  as  much  as  he  did  Miss  Arden  ! ' 

•  A  rose  by  any  other  name,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,'  replied 
George,  smiling.  '  What  does  it  matter,  my  darling  ?  You 
will  be  Mab  Pendle  soon,  so  that  will  settle  everything, 
even  your  meek  husband.* 

'George,'  said  Miss  Bosvile,  solemnly,  'if  there  is  one 
word  in  the  English  language  which  does  not  describe  you, 
it  is  "meek."' 

'  Really !  and  if  there  is  one  name  in  the  same  tongue 
which  fits  you  like  a  glove,  it  is — guess!* 

*  Angel ! '  cried  Mab,  promptly. 

George  laughed.  'Near  it,'  said  he,  'but  not  quite 
what  I  mean.  The  missing  word  will  be  told  when  we  are 
on  our  honeymoon.' 

In  this  way  the  matter  was  arranged,  and  Mab,  as  Miss 
Bosvile,  was  married  to  Captain  Pendle  on  the  self-same 
day,  at  the  self-same  hour,  that  Lucy  became  Lady  Brace. 
If  some  remarks  were  made  on  the  name  inscribed  in  the 
register  of  the  cathedral,  few  people  paid  any  attention  to 
them,  and  those  who  did  received  from  Miss  WhicheUo  the 
same  skilful  explanation  as  she  had  given  the  young  couple. 
Moreover,  as  Mother  Jael  was  not  present  to  make  inquiries, 
and  as  Mrs  Pansey  had  not  the  courage  to  hint  at  scandal, 
the  matter  died  a  natiiral  death.    But  when  the  honeymoon 

X  321 


The  Bishop' s  Secret 

was  waning,  Mab  reminded  George  of  his  promise  to  supply 
the  missing  word. 

'  Is  it  goose?'  she  asked  playfully. 

•No,  my  sweetest,  although  it  ought  to  be!'  replied 
George,  pinching  his  wife's  pretty  ear.  '  It  is  Mab  Pendle ! ' 
and  he  kissed  her. 

Brisk  Dr  Graham  was  at  the  double  wedding,  in  his  most 
amiable  and  least  cynical  mood.  He  congratulated  the 
bishop  and  Mrs  Pendle,  shook  hands  warmly  with  the 
bridegroom,  and  just  as  warmly — on  the  basis  of  a  life-long 
friendship — kissed  the  brides.  Also,  after  the  wedding 
breakfast — at  which  he  made  the  best  speech — he  had  an 
argument  with  Baltic  about  his  penal  conception  of 
Christianity.  The  ex-sailor  had  been  very  mournful  after 
the  suicide  of  Mark,  as  the  rash  act  had  proved  how  shallow 
had  been  the  man's  repentance. 

'  B'U  what  can  you  expect  ? '  said  Graham,  to  him.  *  It  is 
'"mpoj-sible  to  terrify  people  into  a  legitimate  belief  in 
"religion.' 

'  I  don't  want  to  do  that,  sir,'  replied  Baltic,  soberly.  *I 
wish  to  lead  them  to  the  Throne  with  love  and  tenderness.' 

•I  can  hardly  call  your  method  by  such  names,  my  friend. 
You  simply  ruin  people  in  this  life  to  fit  them,  in  their  own 
despite,  for  their  next  existence.' 

•  When  all  is  lost,  doctor,  men  seek  God.' 

•  Perhaps  :  but  that's  a  shabby  way  of  seeking  Him.  If  I 
could  not  b«  converted  of  my  own  free  will,  I  certainly 
shouldn't  ore  about  being  driven  to  take  such  a  course. 
Your  svstem>,  my  friend,  is  ingenious,  but  impossible.' 

•  I  hav*  vet  to  prove  that  it  is  impossible,  doctor.' 

•  Humph  1  I  daresay  you'll  succeed  in  gaining  disciples,* 
said  Gr?h.^m,  with  a  shrug.  'There  is  no  belief  strange 
enough,  for  some  men  to  doubt.  After  Mormonism  and 
Joseph  Smith's  deification,  I  am  prepared  to  believe  that 
humanity  will  go  to  any  length  in  its  search  after  the  un- 
seen. No  doubt  you'll  form  a  sect  in  time,  Mr  Baltic.  If 
so,  call  your  disciples  Hobsonites.' 

•  Why,  Dr  Graham  ? ' 

•  Because  the  gist  of  your  preaching,  so  far  as  I  can 
understand,  is  a  Hobson's  choice,'  retorted  the  doctor. 
*  When  your  flock  of  criminals  lose  everything  through  youx 

322 


Airs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

exposure  of  their  crimes,  they  have  nothing  left  but 
religion.' 

'  Nothing  left  but  God,  you  mean,  sir ;  and  God  is  every- 
thing.' 

'  No  doubt.  I  agree  with  the  latter  part  of  your  epigram, 
Baltic,  although  your  God  is  not  my  God.' 

'There  is  only  one  God,  doctor.' 

•True,  my  friend ;  but  you  and  I  see  Him  under  diflferent 
forms,  and  seek  Him  in  different  ways.' 

*  Our  goal  is  the  same  ! ' 

*  Precisely ;  and  that  undeniable  fact  does  away  with  the 
necessity  of  further  argument.  Good-bye,  Mr  Baltic.  I  am 
glad  to  have  met  you ;  original  people  always  attract  me,' 
and  with  a  handshake  and  a  kindly  nod  the  little  doctor 
bustled  off. 

So,  in  his  turn,  Baltic  departed  from  Beornrnster,  and 
lost  himself  in  the  roaring  tides  of  London,  ii  is  yet  too 
early  to  measure  the  result  of  his  ^-rork ;  to  prognosticate 
if  his  peculiar  views  will  meet  with  a  reception  likely  to 
encourage  their  development  into  a  distinct  sect.  But 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  truth  and  earnestness  will, 
some  day  —  and  perhaps  at  no  very  distant  date  —  meet 
with  their  reward.  Every  prophet  convinced  of  the 
absolute  truth  of  his  mission  succeeds  in  finding  those  to 
whom  his  particular  view  of  the  hereafter  is  acceptable 
beyond  all  others.  So,  after  all,  Baltic,  the  untutored 
sailor,  may  become  the  founder  of  a  sect.  What  his  par- 
ticular 'ism*  will  be  called  it  is  impossible  to  say;  but 
taking  into  consideration  the  man's  extraordinary  concep- 
tion of  Christianity  as  a  punishing  religion,  the  motto  of 
his  new  faith  should  certainly  be  '  Cernit  omnia  Deus  vindex  ! ' 
And  Baltic  can  find  the  remark  cut  and  dried  for  his  quota- 
tion in  the  last  pages  of  the  English  dictionary. 

So  the  story  is  told,  the  drama  is  played,  and  Bishop 
Pendle  was  well  pleased  that  it  should  be  so.  He  had  no 
taste  for  excitement  or  for  dramatic  surprises,  and  was  con- 
tent that  the  moving  incidents  of  the  last  few  weeks  should 
thus  end.  He  had  been  tortured  sufficiently  in  mind  and 
body ;  he  had,  in  Dr  Graham's  phrase,  paid  his  forfeit  to 
the  gods  in  expiation  of  a  too-happy  fortune,  therefore  he 
might  now  hope  to  pass  his  remaining  days  in  peace  and 

323 


The  Bishop's  Secret 

qufet.  George  and  Lucy  were  happily  married ;  Gabriel 
was  close  at  hand  to  be  a  staff  upon  which  he  could  lean 
in  his  old  age ;  and  his  beloved  wife,  the  companion  of  so 
many  peaceful  years,  was  still  his  wife,  nearer  and  dearer 
than  ever. 

When  the  brides  had  departed  with  their  several  grooms, 
when  the  wedding  guests  had  scattered  to  the  four  winds  of 
heaven,  Bishoi^  Pendle  took  his  wife's  hand  within  his  own, 
and  led  her  into  the  library.  Here  he  sat  him  down  by 
her  side,  and  opened  the  Book  of  all  books  with  reverential 
thankfulness  of  soul. 

*I  called  upon  thy  name,  O  Lord,  out  of  the  low 
dungeon.' 

'  Thou  drewest  near  in  the  day  that  I  called  upon  thee : 
thou  saidst.  Fear  not ! ' 

And  the  words,  to  these  so  sorely-tried  of  late,  were  as 
the  dew  to  the  thirsty  herb. 


THE    END 


Sa4 


i 


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